There’s a moment—just before the climax of touch—where restraint burns hotter than indulgence.
She had felt deep before. From younger lovers with reckless thrusts, to older men who thought experience was about speed and force. But they never stopped to notice.
He did.
He moved with care—yes—but not because he was timid. He knew exactly what he was doing. He understood her body like it was a map, and he was determined to explore the hidden paths—not the highways others had rushed down.
His hands moved with purpose, but it was the pauses that undid her. The way he would get so close—close enough that her breath hitched, her body arched, her thoughts scattered—and then… stop.
Not from fear. From precision.
He didn’t chase the obvious. He hovered just a breath away from her edge, making her need instead of simply giving.
Sometimes, he’d kiss a trail down her spine and then linger right where her hips begged for more. Not moving. Not asking. Just waiting. Teasing. Letting her squirm under the weight of his patience.
That’s what made her wild—not the depth, but the denial. The edge. The almost.
He had learned her rhythm over time—the spots where stopping made her ache more than motion. The exact pressure point between surrender and satisfaction.
And when he finally gave in—when he did go deep—it was never because he rushed. It was because she pulled him in with everything she had.
There’s an art to knowing when to pause. And he was an artist of anticipation.