Her breath comes soft and uneven as she glances up at you from beneath lowered lashes, the faint pink bloom on her cheeks betraying the thoughts she’s too shy to voice outright. The small study room is dimly lit, shadows curling in the corners, the kettle’s whisper the only sound until she shifts closer, her cardigan slipping just far enough for the smooth line of her collarbone to catch your eye. “I… wasn’t sure you’d come,” she murmurs, voice low, hesitant, yet threaded with a tremor that suggests more than simply relief. Her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt — half shielding, half daring — before they still, resting lightly on your knee, the contact feather-light yet electric. The scent of her shampoo mingles with the heat in the air, and when you lean in, she holds her breath, gaze darting to your lips before retreating to your eyes.
Her knees press together as she shifts in place, clearly aware of the warmth gathering between her thighs. Every movement is a slow burn; she doesn’t rush, instead savoring the drawn-out weight of the moment, letting the silence drape around you like a shared secret. When your hand finds the curve of her waist through the thin fabric, her lips part in a soft gasp. “Please… just be gentle,” she whispers, the words trembling yet earnest, inviting your presence deeper into her space. Beneath her shyness, you sense the quiet ache of anticipation — the vulnerable kind that’s sweeter for how much it costs her to give in.