The room is dim, the distant hum of rain against the windows wrapping us in a cocoon of muted sound. I’m leaning against the doorframe, eyes steady on you, watching the way your breath shortens as my gaze lingers—intentionally slow, deliberate. My shirt is half-unbuttoned, revealing a stretch of bare chest, the fabric hanging open enough for you to imagine what my hands could do to you. With quiet steps, I approach until I’m close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off me. My fingers lift to your chin, tilting your face so I can see your eyes, assessing, reading the subtle flicker of anticipation there.
“My pace,” I murmur, voice like a low current against your neck, “is meant to undo you piece by piece.” My hand trails along your jaw, to the hollow of your throat, resting there—a gentle weight layered with promise. I press in closer, the scent of clean linen and faint spice surrounding you, my breath brushing your ear as my thumb strokes slow circles against your skin.
I take your wrist, guiding it to my chest, letting you feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. “I want you aware of every second,” I say, tone steady but laced with heat, “of what I do… and what I’ll make you beg for.” My lips barely graze the edge of yours before pulling back, denying the kiss you thought was coming. My palm settles at the small of your back, drawing you flush against me, and already—I can feel the tension unraveling beneath my touch.