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His breath catches, and for a moment I think I’ve said too much, shown too much, been too much. The confession hangs between us, heavy with meaning. I know I’m crossing a line here, one I can’t uncross, one that might be real and messy and dangerous.

But there it is.

On the table.

But instead of responding with words, he rolls us so we’re facing each other on our sides, our bodies aligned from chest to hip to tangled legs. He smiles as his hand skims down my side, fingertips tracing the curve of my waist through my thin sleep shirt.

It’s barely a touch, but it sends warmth shooting through my entire body. Not the urgent, desperate heat of our previousencounters, but something slower, deeper. Something that makes me ache in places that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the terrifying intimacy of being truly seen.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and the question surprises me.

We’ve been fucking for weeks—the dance floor, the Uber, multiple occasions in both our beds. But somehow I understand that he’s asking for something different now. Permission to touch not just my body, but all the vulnerable, broken parts I showed him on the kitchen floor.

“Please,” I whisper.

His hand slides under my shirt, palm warm against my skin. But instead of going straight for the obvious spots, he just… explores. Traces the curve of my ribs, the dip of my waist, the soft skin of my stomach. It’s worship without words, a response to what I finally said, although maybe he’s not ready to.

And that’s OK.

I mirror his movements, my hand sliding under his sheet to find bare skin. The muscles of his abdomen contract under my fingers, and I feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. We’re barely touching, just hands and fingertips and the occasional brush of lips, but somehow it’s the most intimate thing we’ve done.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I believe him, because of the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious and breakable and worth protecting. And soon, his hand moves higher, fingertips ghosting along the underside of my breast. My nipple tightens in anticipation, but he doesn’t touch it yet.

“Maine,” I breathe, not sure if it’s a plea or a prayer.

“I’ve got you,” he promises, and then his thumb brushes over my nipple.

The sensation arrows straight between my legs, and I can’t help the small sound that escapes me. He does it again, rollingthe sensitive peak between his fingers while his mouth finds my throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against my pulse point.

This is nothing like our usual frantic encounters. This is slow and deliberate. Every touch feels like a conversation, every kiss a confession. This is two lovers navigating each other, mapping not just bodies but the vulnerable territories of trust and tenderness.

My hand travels lower, finding him hard and ready beneath the sheet. But when I wrap my fingers around him, it’s not with the usual goal of driving him crazy. I just want to feel him, to know this part of him as intimately as he’s learning me. I caress him slowly, gently… almost with reverence.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my neck as I stroke him slowly, enjoying the weight and heat of him in my palm.

His hand mirrors mine, sliding down to cup me through my sleep shorts. Even through the fabric, I know he can feel how wet I am, how ready. But he doesn’t rush. He just presses the heel of his hand against me, providing pressure that makes me gasp and rock against him.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the seam of my shorts, following the line of my slit through the damp fabric. “So fucking perfect.”

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for. More? Less? Everything? Nothing?

He seems to understand anyway. His fingers slip beneath the elastic of my shorts, finding me bare and soaking. The first touch of his fingers makes us both groan, the sound swallowed as he leans in close to me to claim another deep, searching kiss.

He traces my pussy with devastating gentleness, learning the shape of me like he’s memorizing it for later. When his finger circles my clit, it’s so light I almost wonder if I imagined it. Butthen he does it again, and again, these teasing little circles that make me want to sob with frustration and pleasure.

“Look at me,” he says softly, and I open eyes I didn’t realize I’d closed.

The intensity in his gaze as he watches my face while his finger finally,finallyslides inside me is almost too much. This is intimacy on a level I’ve never experienced, this watching and being watched, this complete presence in the moment.

It’s not foreplay before the main event.

Itisthe main event.

He adds a second finger, but his movements stay slow and deep rather than the usual quick ‘thrust-and-hook’ he’s figured out is my express lane to orgasm. This isn’t about getting off. This is about connection, about saying with our bodies what we—or he, at least—can’t yet say with words.

My hand on his cock maintains the same unhurried pace, squeezing gently on each upstroke, thumb circling the sensitive head. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, of keeping this slow and tender when every instinct probably screams at him to flip me over and drive into me.