I moved slowly.
His breath broke on the second stroke.
When he turned his face toward me, pleasure had darkened his eye.
“Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
His hand found me.
For several moments our movements refused to match. Our wrists collided. Noah laughed softly into my mouth.
The laughter loosened something in him.
His grip grew surer. Mine slowed as his body began to tighten.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
I stopped the rhythm without taking my hand away.
“All right.”
“I want more first.”
“What kind of more?”
His eyelids lowered.
“Your mouth.”
I kissed my way down his chest.
Across his stomach.
Along the sensitive crease of his hip.
Noah’s hand settled on my shoulder as I moved lower. I paused long enough for him to stop me.
He didn’t.
When I touched him with my mouth, his body lifted slightly before settling again beneath the steadying weight of my hand on his thigh.
The sounds he made began quietly.
A breath pulled too sharply.
A syllable without shape.
My name.
I kept the pace unhurried, watching every reaction, letting his body learn pleasure without demanding that it outrun fear.
His fingers twisted into the sheet.
“Close,” he warned.
I eased away.
