He thought she wasn’t into it.
Her body hadn’t arched the way others did. Her breath hadn’t quickened on cue. She just looked at him—quiet, unmoved, almost unreadable.
And like most men, his instinct was to do more. Go faster. Kiss harder. Fix the “problem.”
But before he could shift his rhythm, she reached up, took his wrist, and whispered,
“Stop.”
Not because he’d done anything wrong. But because he’d done what everyone else did—rush.
She sat up, pulled the sheet around her, and looked him in the eye with a calm that stripped his pride bare.
“Do you even know what I like?” she asked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Because he didn’t.
He’d assumed that pleasure was universal. That reactions were automatic. That technique was more important than timing.
But she wasn’t interested in friction. She wanted presence.
So when she invited him to try again, she told him just one thing:
“Don’t chase my response. Wait for it.”
This time, he moved slowly. Not because he was unsure—but because he wanted to feel her wake up. To notice the slight shift in her hips. The way her breath caught not when he touched—but when he hovered.
And when she finally moaned… it wasn’t because he was good.
It was because he’d listened.