The sheets were still warm when he collapsed beside her, chest heaving, a faint flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He’d rushed, couldn’t help it—the way she’d moved, the sounds she’d made, had short-circuited his better judgment. But when he turned to apologize, she was smiling, a small, knowing curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Cute,” she said, her fingers trailing lightly over his arm, “but that part wasn’t for you.” His confusion must have shown, because she shifted closer, her voice softening. “You think this is about your finish?” she asked, and he flinched, suddenly aware of how self-absorbed he’d been.
The smile faded then, replaced by something steadier, more deliberate. “That was for you to get it out of your system,” she said, her hand sliding lower, “so you can pay attention to the rest.” He tensed, not with anticipation, but with a sharp, clear understanding: he’d been in a hurry to check a box, while she was playing a longer game.
When she moved over him, slow and sure, he didn’t rush. Just let himself feel the weight of her, the purpose in her touch, and realized—this wasn’t about his pleasure. It was about theirs. And she was more than willing to teach him the difference.