He wasn’t trying to rush. Not tonight.
He had her stretched out in front of him, bare to the lamplight and still in every way except her breathing—which had become shallow, expectant. She had closed her eyes, not out of modesty, but because she wanted to feel everything.
And then his hand moved—slowly, reverently—across her collarbone, down to the soft curve beneath.
Just below her breath.
That spot. The one most men miss.
It’s not the chest that’s sensitive—it’s what supports it. That tender hollow where skin thins and nerves gather. That little curve that trembles when the right man lingers, not grabs.
And when he found it, she arched—not in pain, not in surprise, but in pleasure so quiet it could barely be named.
He wasn’t even using his palm—just the backs of his fingers. Brushing lightly. Teasing. Measuring how far he could go by the way her stomach tensed and her lips parted without words.
She didn’t ask for more. She didn’t have to.
Her body spoke in movements. In that slow, involuntary lift of her chest toward him. In the breath she held the second his fingers drifted away. In the soft sigh when he returned to the same exact spot—pressing just slightly deeper this time, drawing a whimper from her throat.
She had been touched before—forcefully, greedily. But this was something else.
This was attuned.
And when he kissed that spot—barely open-mouthed, slow, reverent—her back lifted clean off the bed. Not because he was intense, but because he knew.
He knew where she kept her longing. Not behind her lips or between her thighs—but right there, under her breath.
Waiting for someone careful enough to find it.