His hands were moving fast, fumbling with the zipper of her dress, eager, greedy, and she laid hers over his, stilling him. “Slow down,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “it’s better when it aches a little.” He frowned, confused, because he’d always thought the point was to get there—to the heat, the release—as quickly as possible. But she shook her head, guiding his hands to move slower, her fingers laced through his.
“Notice it,” she murmured, as he brushed the back of his hand against her collarbone, “the way your chest tightens when you want more. The way your breath catches when I touch you like this.” She traced a slow line down his arm, and he felt it—a sharp, sweet ache low in his stomach, the kind that came from wanting and waiting, not just taking.
This wasn’t about denial. It was about savoring the in-between—the moments before the kiss, the pause before the touch, the way longing sharpened every sensation. He’d been rushing through it, afraid it would slip away, but she was teaching him to lean into the ache, to let it build until it was almost unbearable. “See?” she said, as he let himself linger over the curve of her jaw, “feels bigger this way, doesn’t it?”
When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t fast or frantic. It was slow, deliberate, and the ache—oh, the ache—made it burn brighter than anything he’d ever known. She was right. Rushing was for the impatient. This? This was for the ones brave enough to let desire hurt a little, because the payoff was worth every second.