She didn’t use words.
She didn’t need to.
The moment his lips trailed below her navel, her body spoke louder than any whisper. Her thighs rose slowly, like a tide. And when they closed around his shoulders, it wasn’t forceful.
It was deliberate.
He hesitated. Was it a signal to pause? To retreat?
Most men would’ve taken it that way—frozen, unsure, fearing they had gone too far.
But she hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t flinched.
She had wrapped herself around him.
Not as a wall. But as a boundary.
And only the right man would know that boundaries aren’t barriers. They’re permissions—given on her terms.
She let him stay there. Still. Surrounded. Warm.
A silent test: could he read what wasn’t said? Could he feel what wasn’t pushed?
And when he didn’t pull away—when he didn’t rush forward either—her body melted, slowly unclenching, guiding him deeper with nothing but breath and muscle.
It was the kind of moment most men ruin—by thinking the closing of her thighs means “stop.”
It doesn’t.
Sometimes it means… listen.