He thought she’d stop him. He expected resistance.
But the moment he started exploring—fingers trailing lower, mouth following the heat of her skin—she didn’t flinch. She opened.
It was only when he paused—just before reaching the edge of her thighs—that she tensed.
Not in fear.
In frustration.
She bit her lip, but not in shyness. Her eyes opened, sharp and searching, and she tilted her hips forward—inviting, challenging, commanding. And still, he hesitated.
That’s when she spoke.
“Don’t stop now. Not there.”
Her voice was quiet, but urgent. Not pleading. Directing.
He moved again, slowly, savoring every inch. And with each movement downward, her body relaxed—but her eyes stayed locked on his, as if to say: You don’t get to be careful now.
Because she’d had careful. She’d had the men who stopped too soon, who mistook hesitation for respect. Who thought boundaries were marked by where the skin got thinner or where the nerves clustered.
But for her, it was different.
Her flinch didn’t come from discomfort—it came from denial. From being teased without intent. Touched without follow-through.
And now, he understood.
So this time, he didn’t pause. He went lower. Slower. Deeper—not with pressure, but presence. And when he finally arrived—when his breath grazed the place she wanted most—she didn’t flinch.
She shuddered.
Because he wasn’t afraid anymore.
And neither was she.