The armchair creaked under his weight as he watched her cross the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She didn’t hurry, just stood between his knees for a long breath, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders, her gaze steady on his. Then she lowered herself, inch by inch, until her thighs bracketed his, her weight settling slow and deliberate, like she was counting each second that passed between them.
He tensed, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air, not sure where to put them, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her palms slid down his chest, her fingers brushing the buttons of his shirt, and she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “Feel that?” she murmured, and he knew she didn’t mean the press of her body, but the slow burn of anticipation—the way each moment stretched, thick and sweet, like honey.
This wasn’t about speed. It was about presence—making him notice the curve of her spine as she leaned back, the way her hips shifted slightly when he swallowed, the faint catch in her breath when his hands finally found her waist, tentative at first, then firmer. She wanted him to feel it, not just rush through it—the weight of her, the trust in the slowness, the quiet assertion that this moment belonged to both of them, and neither was in a hurry to let it end.
Her lips brushed his, soft and brief, before she pulled back, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Good,” she said, like he’d passed a test, and he realized he had. He’d stopped waiting for the next thing, stopped thinking ahead, and just… was. With her on his lap, the world outside the room faded, and all that mattered was the slow, steady beat of their shared breath.