The stillness was total.
His hands shook once against my hips.
Then nothing. Just heat and quiet and the ceiling fan and his palms pressing me flush, keeping the angle, keeping everything exactly where it needed to be.
"Don't move," he said.
"I'm not moving."
"Good." His hand spread flat across my lower back. "Stay right there."
He withdrew slowly, and I made an involuntary sound at the loss of him, but his hand pressed firmer against my back. "Stay still," he said. "I've got you."
I felt him reach for the cup. Felt him press it carefully into place, sealing everything in—all of it, exactly where it needed to be—and the deliberateness of it, the specific care he was taking, undid something in me all over again.
"There," he said quietly. "Not going anywhere."
Then I heard him open the box.
Then the vibe…it buzzed.
His hand smoothed over my lower back, holding me steady.
"Now…" he said, “twenty minutes is a long time, darlin’. You want me to stop if it gets to be too much? Or…do you want me to keep going, even if you beg?”
“Keep going,” I said immediately. “The cervical contractions?—”
He pressed the vibe to my clit.
I let out a yelp, arching deeper, thrusting my pussy toward him.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Clock's right there."
I lifted my head. The clock on the wall read 9:47.
"Eyes forward," he said, and pressed the vibe closer.
I dropped my head.
He kept it steady. Not moving it, not varying the pressure, just holding it exactly where it was while my whole body tried to climb away from it and the bench kept me exactly in place. My hips bucked and he put one hand flat on the small of my back.
"Stay still," he said. "You said twenty minutes."
"I know what I said?—"
"Then stay still."
I gripped the bench and tried. My thighs were shaking already. The cap held everything in place and I could feel it, the warmth and fullness of it, and the vibration was going straight through and I was climbing again embarrassingly fast, body already forgetting it had just come apart thirty seconds ago.
"Gage—"
"Four minutes," he said pleasantly.
"It hasn't been four minutes?—"
"Look at the clock."
9:51. Four minutes. Sixteen to go. Sixteen minutes while I was already oversensitive and shaking and he sounded like a man watching paint dry.
