Moans are easy. They can be drawn out by touch, by rhythm, by practiced hands that know where to go and how to finish.
She’s given moans before. Loud ones. Honest ones. But fleeting.
Because a moan is not surrender. It’s not softness. It’s not safety.
She’d felt many men chase sounds—press harder, move faster, just to prove they could make her react. But reaction isn’t connection.
Then one night, it changed.
He didn’t rush to undress her. He didn’t treat her body like a puzzle to solve. He simply sat beside her, one hand on her thigh—not moving, not searching. Just being.
He asked nothing. He expected less.
And in that space, she let go. Not all at once. Not dramatically.
She just… melted.
Her body softened, not because of arousal—but because of trust.
Because she knew: he wasn’t there to perform. He was there to feel.
And that was the moment she learned—moans are forgettable.
But melting? That’s rare. That’s real.
And only one man had ever made her body go quiet… and her soul go soft.