She eases back, her movements softening from a rhythm that had him gasping to something slow, almost lazy, her hips pressing against his in long, drawn-out waves. At first, he thinks it’s a reprieve, a chance to catch his breath, but then his chest starts heaving, his breaths coming faster, harder, like he’s running a race instead of lying still.
This is the trick, the one she knows too well: slowness doesn’t calm him. It undoes him. When she moves fast, he can focus on the heat, the urgency, the physicality of it. But slow? Slow makes him feel every inch—the brush of her skin, the press of her mouth, the way her breath hitches when he tenses beneath her. It strips away the noise, leaves him raw and exposed, and his body reacts before his brain can stop it: faster breaths, a tighter grip, a low, rough sound in the back of his throat.
“Easy,” she murmurs, but her eyes are dark, watching him come undone, and he knows she’s not trying to soothe. She’s enjoying it—the way he’s unraveling, thread by thread, the control slipping from his fingers. He’s not impatient. He’s unmade, reduced to the barest version of himself, where all he can do is feel, and gasp, and let her take him apart.
When she finally picks up the pace again, he nearly sobs with relief, but it’s short-lived. She slows down once more, just to watch him struggle, and he realizes he’s not fighting it anymore. Unraveling never felt so good.