They went shopping for his birthday.

She kept picking shirts for him, and every time he came out of the trial room wearing one of them, she couldn't help but think how cute he looked. There was something endearing about the way he wore every shirt she chose without once asking,

“How does this look?”

He simply smiled at her, as if her approval was enough.

They bought a couple of shirts, had good food, wandered around a little longer than they intended to, and somewhere on their way back, she suddenly wanted to have a drink with him.

So she chose home.

They picked up the drinks on their way back and returned to their little world.

The moment they stepped inside, he relaxed.

He sprawled across the bed, completely at ease, while she went to change. When she returned, she climbed onto his lap and rested her head against his shoulder for a while.

Neither of them needed to say anything.

There was comfort in simply being there.

After a while, she made him lie down and playfully kissed his neck.

He immediately burst into laughter.

He was ridiculously ticklish there.

She laughed at him, and, in his usual childish revenge, he caught her hands and started tickling her back.

They laughed until they were breathless.

Then the doorbell rang.

Their food had arrived.

He sat there cutting the fruits while she leaned against his back, hugging him lazily and responding to whatever he said with little “mmm… mmm” sounds.

At one point, he turned around, pulled her into a hug, kissed her hair in that soft, pampering way of his, and asked her to move to the hall.

So they arranged everything.

The food.

The drinks.

The evening.

They started drinking, and after a couple of rounds, she nestled herself into his arms, taking little sips from her glass while resting against him.

At some point, he asked her if he could have a cigarette.

She said no.

He knew she hated him smoking.

And she knew he had that familiar temptation whenever he drank.

So eventually, she gave him permission for one.

He had two.

That was enough to make her slightly furious.

She walked toward the bedroom, already feeling the alcohol taking over her balance. She could barely walk properly. When she almost stumbled, he caught her, but she couldn't steady herself.

She crashed onto the bed and, still annoyed, grabbed him by his collar.

He fell with her.

And somewhere between the alcohol, the irritation, the laughter, and everything she had been trying not to feel—

she kissed him.

Not cautiously.

Not thoughtfully.

Not with the hesitation that usually accompanied all her questions about him.

She kissed him like someone who had starved of something she didn't know she needed.

All her insecurities disappeared for a moment.

All the questions disappeared.

What are they?

What does this mean?

Where is this going?

None of it mattered.

She simply wanted him.

And he understood.

He kissed her face, her lips, held her close, and kissed her neck while she melted into the familiarity of his arms.

There was something almost beautiful about the fact that, for one night, she wasn't trying to understand what they were.

She was simply feeling what they were.

Eventually, the alcohol and exhaustion took over.

She fell asleep in his arms.

And sometime later, lying there beside him, she began to wonder—

What if she hadn't kissed him that night?

What if she had stayed angry?

What if she had gone to sleep with all those questions still circling inside her?

What if she had spent the entire night trying to figure out what they were instead of allowing herself to experience what they felt like?

Maybe she would have missed it.

Because perhaps that was the cruelest thing about overthinking love.

Sometimes, in trying so hard to understand what something is, people forget to notice how deeply it makes them feel.

She didn't know what they were.

Maybe she never had.

But she knew what being with him felt like.

It felt like laughing over something stupid.

It felt like being caught when she couldn't keep her balance.

It felt like resting against his shoulder without needing a reason.

It felt like his hand finding her without thinking.

It felt like being pampered in the smallest ways.

It felt like being safe enough to be childish.

It felt like being wanted without having to ask.

It felt like something she didn't have a name for—

but didn't want to lose.

And maybe that's what she understood that night.

Not everything beautiful needs a definition before it can be real.

Sometimes, you don't have to know whether something is love, or forever, or just a moment.

Sometimes you only need to know that, in that moment, it felt like everything.

Because what if she hadn't kissed him that night?

She might have spent years wondering how good it could have felt if she had stopped thinking and simply let herself feel.

And maybe some moments are worth living precisely because you don't know what they mean yet.

Maybe the meaning comes later.

Maybe some things aren't meant to be figured out.

Maybe they're just meant to be felt.

They went shopping for his birthday.

She kept picking shirts for him, and every time he came out of the trial room wearing one of them, she couldn't help but think how cute he looked. There was something endearing about the way he wore every shirt she chose without once asking,

“How does this look?”

He simply smiled at her, as if her approval was enough.

They bought a couple of shirts, had good food, wandered around a little longer than they intended to, and somewhere on their way back, she suddenly wanted to have a drink with him.

So she chose home.

They picked up the drinks on their way back and returned to their little world.

The moment they stepped inside, he relaxed.

He sprawled across the bed, completely at ease, while she went to change. When she returned, she climbed onto his lap and rested her head against his shoulder for a while.

Neither of them needed to say anything.

There was comfort in simply being there.

After a while, she made him lie down and playfully kissed his neck.

He immediately burst into laughter.

He was ridiculously ticklish there.

She laughed at him, and, in his usual childish revenge, he caught her hands and started tickling her back.

They laughed until they were breathless.

Then the doorbell rang.

Their food had arrived.

He sat there cutting the fruits while she leaned against his back, hugging him lazily and responding to whatever he said with little “mmm… mmm” sounds.

At one point, he turned around, pulled her into a hug, kissed her hair in that soft, pampering way of his, and asked her to move to the hall.

So they arranged everything.

The food.

The drinks.

The evening.

They started drinking, and after a couple of rounds, she nestled herself into his arms, taking little sips from her glass while resting against him.

At some point, he asked her if he could have a cigarette.

She said no.

He knew she hated him smoking.

And she knew he had that familiar temptation whenever he drank.

So eventually, she gave him permission for one.

He had two.

That was enough to make her slightly furious.

She walked toward the bedroom, already feeling the alcohol taking over her balance. She could barely walk properly. When she almost stumbled, he caught her, but she couldn't steady herself.

She crashed onto the bed and, still annoyed, grabbed him by his collar.

He fell with her.

And somewhere between the alcohol, the irritation, the laughter, and everything she had been trying not to feel—

she kissed him.

Not cautiously.

Not thoughtfully.

Not with the hesitation that usually accompanied all her questions about him.

She kissed him like someone who had starved of something she didn't know she needed.

All her insecurities disappeared for a moment.

All the questions disappeared.

What are they?

What does this mean?

Where is this going?

None of it mattered.

She simply wanted him.

And he understood.

He kissed her face, her lips, held her close, and kissed her neck while she melted into the familiarity of his arms.

There was something almost beautiful about the fact that, for one night, she wasn't trying to understand what they were.

She was simply feeling what they were.

Eventually, the alcohol and exhaustion took over.

She fell asleep in his arms.

And sometime later, lying there beside him, she began to wonder—

What if she hadn't kissed him that night?

What if she had stayed angry?

What if she had gone to sleep with all those questions still circling inside her?

What if she had spent the entire night trying to figure out what they were instead of allowing herself to experience what they felt like?

Maybe she would have missed it.

Because perhaps that was the cruelest thing about overthinking love.

Sometimes, in trying so hard to understand what something is, people forget to notice how deeply it makes them feel.

She didn't know what they were.

Maybe she never had.

But she knew what being with him felt like.

It felt like laughing over something stupid.

It felt like being caught when she couldn't keep her balance.

It felt like resting against his shoulder without needing a reason.

It felt like his hand finding her without thinking.

It felt like being pampered in the smallest ways.

It felt like being safe enough to be childish.

It felt like being wanted without having to ask.

It felt like something she didn't have a name for—

but didn't want to lose.

And maybe that's what she understood that night.

Not everything beautiful needs a definition before it can be real.

Sometimes, you don't have to know whether something is love, or forever, or just a moment.

Sometimes you only need to know that, in that moment, it felt like everything.

Because what if she hadn't kissed him that night?

She might have spent years wondering how good it could have felt if she had stopped thinking and simply let herself feel.

And maybe some moments are worth living precisely because you don't know what they mean yet.

Maybe the meaning comes later.

Maybe some things aren't meant to be figured out.

Maybe they're just meant to be felt.

After some time, he came back from work. He stepped out onto the balcony shirtless for a call, and I couldn’t help but watch him, admiring every line of his body. When he returned, still shirtless and fumbling to find a shirt to wear, I couldn’t hold back.

I pushed him down, letting him land on his tummy, then slowly roll him onto his back. My body presses against his, moving with him, grinding gently, easing every trace of stress away and let him melt under your touch.

I can feel the tightness in his shoulders slowly give way, his breaths deepening as my lips brush against his cheeks. I whisper how much I love him, letting each word sink in, letting him feel it in every touch. My teeth graze his ears, teasing lightly, as I murmur how unbearable the day felt without him, how much I missed him.

My hand drifts down there slowly and deliberately with purpose, holding him just enough to tease and brushing his tip lightly as I trail soft, lingering kisses along the curve of his neck.

Every shiver, every hitch in his breath, makes my heart race. His body trembles beneath mine, surrendering to the moment, craving more. I feel the heat of him, the pull, the quiet desperation, and it draws me in deeper.

Finally, he can’t hold back anymore. He turns to face me, his eyes locking with mine as he holds my other hand, the one resting on his tip. His breath catches, shivering, his voice low and heavy, just on the edge— “Oh… that’s how much I missed being yours too, Peacock.”

And then he comes, his body trembling against mine. One hand cradles my chin, pampering me with soft, lingering touches, while his gaze locks with mine, full of warmth, vulnerability, and something unspoken that makes my heart ache. Every shiver, every sigh, every breath between us feels like it stretches time, until there’s nothing left but the closeness, the surrender, and the quiet hum of being together.

On a fine evening, he walked in from work, and there she was—his white shirt hanging perfectly on her, ripped denim shorts barely holding him at bay, her phone in hand, teasingly scrolling while her cleavage caught every bit of the fading sunlight. The sight of her curves, soft yet dangerously inviting, made him lose all control.

Before she could even react, he pinned her against the wall, capturing her hands in his grip. He leaned closer, inhaling her scent, and she closed her eyes, anticipating a kiss. But instead, his lips grazed the lids of her eyes, soft and deliberate. When she opened them, his lips claimed hers fully—heavy, messy, desperate. Tongues tangled, breaths mingled, a hunger between them that was almost unbearable.

He slid slightly down her side, his presence igniting every nerve. She moaned softly, lost in the heat, and that’s when he loosened his hold, lifting her effortlessly and pressing his lips to her neck. She melted into him, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.

He kissed her chin, soothing her pleasure, then carried her to the bed, gently, reverently. His lips roamed—pecking her cheeks, her nose, her lips—pampering her, coaxing soft laughter even amidst the fire of desire.

Every kiss whispered, I can’t get enough of you.

Slowly, intentionally, he drifted lower. Collarbone, chest, nippies, belly button… his lips moved with purpose until they reached her panty, brushing against her inner thighs. Her hands wandered in search of him, but he held them gently, controlling the rhythm of their shared fire. He shifted her panty aside, pecks following one after another, pushing her closer to the edge. She spread herself with one hand and pulled his head closer with the other, gasping,

“Babe, bury your tongue in me… taste me until I shiver and can’t moan your name.”

Her breathing turned ragged as he obeyed, tongue tracing poetry over every sensitive curve. She gripped his face between her thighs, moaning,

“Yes, yes… Babe, make me yours.”

That turned him on even further, and he continued—one hand holding hers, the other cupping her bubbie, moving in perfect, unrelenting rhythm.

She came suddenly, arching, trembling, lost in shivers and groans, every nerve screaming the love.

She pulled him up, honoring him with fevered kisses.

Between gasps, she whispered for him not to swallow the cum, a tender caution amidst the storm of desire. He gazed into her eyes, kissed her once more, then laid himself fully atop her, nestled against her warmth and arms.

She pressed her lips to the top of his hair, and in that quiet aftermath, wrapped in each other’s hold, they finally surrendered to sleep.

On a fine evening, he walked in from work, and there she was—his white shirt hanging perfectly on her, ripped denim shorts barely holding him at bay, her phone in hand, teasingly scrolling while her cleavage caught every bit of the fading sunlight. The sight of her curves, soft yet dangerously inviting, made him lose all control.

Before she could even react, he pinned her against the wall, capturing her hands in his grip. He leaned closer, inhaling her scent, and she closed her eyes, anticipating a kiss. But instead, his lips grazed the lids of her eyes, soft and deliberate. When she opened them, his lips claimed hers fully—heavy, messy, desperate. Tongues tangled, breaths mingled, a hunger between them that was almost unbearable.

He slid slightly down her side, his presence igniting every nerve. She moaned softly, lost in the heat, and that’s when he loosened his hold, lifting her effortlessly and pressing his lips to her neck. She melted into him, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.

He kissed her chin, soothing her pleasure, then carried her to the bed, gently, reverently. His lips roamed—pecking her cheeks, her nose, her lips—pampering her, coaxing soft laughter even amidst the fire of desire.

Every kiss whispered, I can’t get enough of you.

Slowly, intentionally, he drifted lower. Collarbone, chest, nippies, belly button… his lips moved with purpose until they reached her panty, brushing against her inner thighs. Her hands wandered in search of him, but he held them gently, controlling the rhythm of their shared fire. He shifted her panty aside, pecks following one after another, pushing her closer to the edge. She spread herself with one hand and pulled his head closer with the other, gasping,

“Babe, bury your tongue in me… taste me until I shiver and can’t moan your name.”

Her breathing turned ragged as he obeyed, tongue tracing poetry over every sensitive curve. She gripped his face between her thighs, moaning,

“Yes, yes… Babe, make me yours.”

That turned him on even further, and he continued—one hand holding hers, the other cupping her bubbie, moving in perfect, unrelenting rhythm.

She came suddenly, arching, trembling, lost in shivers and groans, every nerve screaming the love.

She pulled him up, honoring him with fevered kisses.

Between gasps, she whispered for him not to swallow the cum, a tender caution amidst the storm of desire. He gazed into her eyes, kissed her once more, then laid himself fully atop her, nestled against her warmth and arms.

She pressed her lips to the top of his hair, and in that quiet aftermath, wrapped in each other’s hold, they finally surrendered to sleep.

As soon as he saw you going to bath with your tanks, something in him shifted—like the air itself charged with heat. He lifted you to the bed and threw himself down beside you, removing his shirt in one swift motion, revealing the skin you loved to trace with your eyes and hands. He tried to kiss around the clit and inner thighs, gentle at first, teasing just enough to make you laugh and giggle, the sound spilling out of you like music meant only for him. Each laugh pulled him closer, closer to the place he knew would drive you wild.

After that, he shifted, pressing his right side face against your left thigh, lips hovering and started to rub over your lips down there, almost daring you to pull him in. He held your right side, hand moving downward, holding above, lips gliding over your 😺—just enough to make you tug him harder, desperate for him to obey, to lick, to worship and

breathe poetry on you.

You ran your left-hand fingers into his hair, pulling him with urgency, and he found a comfortable spot lying on your thigh, chasing that one high that made your left side tighten, almost tremble. His gaze locked on yours as you moaned, and in that instant, he felt it too. While licking moaningly, he whispered, 

“Eyes on me, peacock,” low, teasing, and possessive, letting every sound vibrate against you as his lips never left your skin.

And that moment, the connection, electric and raw, vibrating through him as he licked and moaned into you like this was everything—the entire night distilled into this moment, moving you, lifting you to the edge.

And he’s doing so well. You gasped, breath catching, “Oh yes… I’m coming, baby,”

letting yourself go, body quivering under his lips. He nibbled your petals, sucked, pulled, licked, and every motion sent shivers through you, until you couldn’t help but quiver and literally scream,

“Yes, baby, that’s my man.”

Then it happened—you squirted lightly from pleasure, and he laughed softly, the sound full of mischief and warmth. He rubbed his face all over your pussy playfully, making you laugh, before trailing kisses around the clit, inner thighs, thighs, and lips down there.

You pulled him up, pressing your lips hard against his, tasting yourself on him, heart racing.

Then you asked him to do the shave. So the two of you went to the bathroom.

He shaved you slowly, carefully, each movement deliberate, intimate, lingering over your skin.

Then he bathed you, cleaned you, every touch charged, gentle, attentive—each moment a wordless promise, a reaffirmation of the closeness between you.

Back in bed, naked and intertwined, your bodies moved together naturally. Slow, lingering kisses, whispered breaths, and tender touches filled the room.

You curled up against his chest where he kissed on your hair,

feeling the rise and fall of him beneath you, heartbeat syncing with yours. And there, safe and warm, with the night wrapped around you both, you drifted off to sleep, peaceful, loved, completely and utterly his.

As soon as he saw you going to bath with your tanks, something in him shifted—like the air itself charged with heat. He lifted you to the bed and threw himself down beside you, removing his shirt in one swift motion, revealing the skin you loved to trace with your eyes and hands. He tried to kiss around the clit and inner thighs, gentle at first, teasing just enough to make you laugh and giggle, the sound spilling out of you like music meant only for him. Each laugh pulled him closer, closer to the place he knew would drive you wild.

After that, he shifted, pressing his right side against your left thigh, lips hovering just over you, almost daring you to pull him in. He held your right side, hand moving downward, holding above, lips gliding over your most sensitive places—just enough to make you tug him harder, desperate for him to obey, to lick, to worship.

You ran your left-hand fingers into his hair, pulling him with urgency, and he found a comfortable spot lying on your thigh, chasing that one high that made your left side tighten, almost tremble. His gaze locked on yours as you moaned, and in that instant, he felt it too. The connection, electric and raw, vibrating through him as he licked and moaned into you like this was everything—the entire night distilled into this moment, moving you, lifting you to the edge.

And he’s doing so well. You gasped, breath catching, “Oh yes… I’m coming, baby,” letting yourself go, body quivering under his lips. He nibbled your petals, sucked, pulled, licked, and every motion sent shivers through you, until you couldn’t help but quiver and literally scream, “Yes, baby, that’s my man.”

Then it happened—you squirted lightly from pleasure, and he laughed softly, the sound full of mischief and warmth. He rubbed his face all over your pussy playfully, making you laugh, before trailing kisses around the clit, inner thighs, thighs, and lips down there.

You pulled him up, pressing your lips hard against his, tasting yourself on him, heart racing. Then you asked him to do the shave. So the two of you went to the bathroom. He shaved you slowly, carefully, each movement deliberate, intimate, lingering over your skin. Then he bathed you, cleaned you, every touch charged, gentle, attentive—each moment a wordless promise, a reaffirmation of the closeness between you.

Back in bed, naked and intertwined, your bodies moved together naturally. Slow, lingering kisses, whispered breaths, and tender touches filled the room. You curled up against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of him beneath you, heartbeat syncing with yours. And there, safe and warm, with the night wrapped around you both, you drifted off to sleep, peaceful, loved, completely and utterly his.

One fine evening in the mid week, It was raining cats and dogs. He came to pick her up from work. By the time he arrived, she was already soaked—standing there, arms folded, lips pressed tight. She hates being wet.

Every drop on her skin made her grumpier.

She didn’t say a word when she got in the car. Just slammed the door and stared ahead. Traffic crawled. The wipers danced. Her silence screamed louder than any words. He played her favorite song, sang along badly, cracked jokes—but nothing worked. She stayed still, stewing in her wet clothes and frustration.

Her phone rang—work. He answered, still stealing glances at her.

They reached home. She pushed open the door, stepped out of her slippers, tossed her bag on the couch, and collapsed onto it. Still on her call, her voice low and irritated. She couldn't hang up, and that only added to her mood.

He used that time well. Quietly, he slipped into the bedroom, grabbed the dryer, and came back. But before turning it on, he paused in front of her.

Without a word, he slowly dropped to his knees. She raised an eyebrow, still on the phone, still visibly annoyed.

He made a puppy face, tilted his head slightly, and placed both hands on his ears, mouthing an exaggerated but adorable, “Sorry.”

She tried to stay mad—but her lips twitched. Her eyes softened.

That was his in.

He gently set the dryer aside, knelt closer, and reached for the hem of her top. She frowned, but didn’t stop him. She didn’t resist.

He kissed her right cheek, then the left—his silent apology continuing in their unspoken language.

He lifted her top over her head, peeled off her pants, and turned on the dryer. Warm air met cold skin. She stayed quiet, still clutching her phone, still pretending to be mad. He moved carefully, drying her, brushing his lips along her shoulder, her neck, the corner of her jaw—just enough to make her lips twitch.

She had only her inners on now. He stood, slipped away into the kitchen, and made her tea—because he knew her. A warm cup always soothed her soul.

When he returned, she was still on the phone. He placed the tea beside her and sat next to her, watching her closely. She finally hung up. Tilted her head, sighed. He handed her the cup.

“Still not gonna talk to me?” he asked with a smirk, sliding her bralette slightly aside. She swatted his hand away, glaring.

“Oh?” he teased. “Is this how you behave? Then I’ve got my ways too.” His fingers traced her waist, her thighs, slow and knowing. She took the final sip of tea, stood to leave—but he caught her wrist.

One spin, and she was laughing.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her down gently. “Stay mad,” he whispered, hovering over her.

“Let me finish you off. Let’s see who wins.”

His lips met her skin—her neck, her chest, her belly. He took his time, tracing slow circles with his tongue around her navel. Her breaths deepened. He slid her panties aside, kissed her there—softly, reverently.

He pulled them off completely, kept kissing, teasing. “Still angry?” he asked, voice low against her skin. She gasped, her body answering before her words could.

Then, with a grin, he rubbed his face all over her poosy teasing her with slow, sloppy kisses around her sweetest spot (cl!t & poosy). She laughed, breath hitching, her fingers gripping his hair.

“Okay… I’ll forgive you,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-moaning, “but please… stop teasing.” Yet she kept pulling him closer.

So he didn’t stop. He went wild—kissing all over her, especially around her clit. Again. And again. Her breathing grew heavy, her legs shook, her voice broke into soft moans of his name, until she finally reached her climax, trembling and breathless.

Still breathless, he whispered, “Still mad?”

She gasped out, “No. I love you… I’m all yours.”

He moved up, kissed her lips, gently bit her lower lip, and whispered, “I’m sorry, honey” eyes locked on hers.

She sighed, wrapped her arms around him. “You know I hate being wet. It wasn’t my fault. My meeting got extended. That’s why I was late.”

He nodded. “Okay. But next time, at least let me know.”

She smiled faintly and hugged him tighter. He kissed her forehead, over her hair and held her like she was everything he ever needed.

Tonight… we enter a rainy evening.

The kind of night when exhaustion kisses the skin… and love, desire, and warmth kiss the soul.

So light a candle. Pour yourself a drink.

Because this… isn’t just a story.

It’s a slow burn of two bodies… and one kind of love that touches deep.

It was raining.

Not the kind of rain you run from… but the kind that wraps around you like a memory.

He came home… soaked.

Tired.

Done.

She didn’t say much. Just met him with a soft towel and a softer smile.

“Go take a hot bath,” she whispered.

He obeyed.

Minutes later, he emerged… towel draped low, steam trailing behind him, water dripping from his hair…

No words. Just a gentle grab at her waist.

A kiss that said, "I missed you."

She smiled into his lips. “Come, let’s eat.”

But he wasn’t ready for the dinner table.

He slouched back on their bed—shirtless, sleepy, his scent mixing with rain and soap.

So she cooked. Not just food. But comfort.

Rasam rice. Vanjaram fry. Pepper chicken.

His favorite plate of warmth.

She returned, sat beside him, and fed him with her hands.

Each bite, a little pause. Each pause… a kiss. A touch. A whisper on her skin.

“Stop it,” she giggled, scolding him softly.

“What?” he grinned. “Just appreciating the chef.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the blush rising to her cheeks.

He leaned in again.

Another kiss. This time, slower.

But he just moaned playfully against her neck, “Mmm… just a little… you taste better.”

Later, while he lazed on the bed, half-asleep, she snuck away to the kitchen.

Cleaned the dishes.

And returned… with two glasses of chilled Pinot Noir, a bottle sweating in her palm.

Not fancy. Just what they had in the fridge.

They opened the balcony door.

Sat on the floor. Legs tangled. Rain still falling. Lights off, only a warm amber glow from their bedroom filling the space.

He spread his legs. She sat between them. Close.

“Someone at work told me I had nice eyes,” he said, taking a sip.

She side-eyed him.

“And you’re bringing that up now?”

He grinned. “Just thought I’d let you know others notice too.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow. “Did you smile back?”

He grinned. “Nah. I saved it for you.”

She smirked. “Smooth.”

He reached over, ran an ice cube across her lips.

“Calling his nickname...” she whispered, breath catching.

Rubbed it down her neck.

Circling her nipples under her tank top.

She gasped.

She kissed him. Deep. Wet. Desperate.

Their tongues danced. Her fingers gripped his hair.

He flipped her beneath him. Pulled off her top.

Traced another ice cube from her lips… down to her chest… her armpits… her belly button…

Stopping just above her heat.

Not touching. Just teasing.

Her back arched. Her breath caught.

Cold. Want. Heat.

He was her storm. And her shelter.

And when she finally moaned, trembling from the edge he teased...

He dried her body with the towel. Kissed her everywhere. Let her melt against his chest.

Rain still falling outside… but inside, there was nothing but warmth.

“I wish I had the kulfis we used to eat as kids,” she whispered into his neck.

He smiled. “Say no more.”

In minutes, the kulfis arrived.

She unwrapped hers, licking slowly.

He… had other plans.

He slowly placed his kulfi between her legs, gently pressing it to her clit.

“Don’t waste it…” she moaned, squirming.

He laughed. “Who’s wasting?”

Just kissed her inner thigh, let the kulfi melt along her skin… and tasted her like she was dessert.

She grabbed his hair. Pulled. Moaned his name.

Using the kulfi like a brush, painting her in pleasure, and pressed and rubbed on her clit gently, followed up with circles, and as it melted, he continued—

Biting. Sucking. Circling.

Her body trembled. Her back arched.

And when he finally rubbed his hardness along her clit, by just inserting his love muscle and taking it out, he teased her.

She looked at him with half-lidded eyes, whispering, “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. Not until she went limp, breath shaking.

She gasped. Clawed. Moaned.

And he growled into her neck, “That’s my girl.”

He kissed her thighs.

Let her body come down… slow and sweet.

She curled into him, breathless, skin warm, lips still parted in pleasure.“I felt you… everywhere,” she whispered into his neck kissing his jaw….

He kissed her hair. “Let’s clean up first. Then… round two?”

They stripped the sheets—laughing, tangled.

Cleaned the mess.

Then melted back into each other.

Rain still dancing outside.

Inside?

Cleaned the bed.

Before laying in bed they just did a nakey dance seeing the rain outside and then he pinned her to the bed.

Then curled up again.

In each other’s warmth.

Rain pouring.

Love pulsing.

And two souls tangled beneath one blanket, in more ways than one.

As she was so scared of letting him all the way in straight, he’s taking things slow enough to make her feel safe, loved, and enjoyed—without rushing, but making her crave him and want more…

Tonight… we enter a rainy evening.

The kind of night when exhaustion kisses the skin… and love, desire, and warmth kiss the soul.

So light a candle. Pour yourself a drink.

Because this… isn’t just a story.

It’s a slow burn of two bodies… and one kind of love that touches deep.

It was raining.

Not the kind of rain you run from… but the kind that wraps around you like a memory.

He came home… soaked.

Tired.

Done.

She didn’t say much. Just met him with a soft towel and a softer smile.

“Go take a hot bath,” she whispered.

He obeyed.

Minutes later, he emerged… towel draped low, steam trailing behind him, water dripping from his hair…

No words. Just a gentle grab at her waist.

A kiss that said, "I missed you."

She smiled into his lips. “Come, let’s eat.”

But he wasn’t ready for the dinner table.

He slouched back on their bed—shirtless, sleepy, his scent mixing with rain and soap.

So she cooked. Not just food. But comfort.

Rasam rice. Vanjaram fry. Pepper chicken.

His favorite plate of warmth.

She returned, sat beside him, and fed him with her hands.

Each bite, a little pause. Each pause… a kiss. A touch. A whisper on her skin.

“Stop it,” she giggled, scolding him softly.

“What?” he grinned. “Just appreciating the chef.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the blush rising to her cheeks.

He leaned in again.

Another kiss. This time, slower.

But he just moaned playfully against her neck, “Mmm… just a little… you taste better.”

Later, while he lazed on the bed, half-asleep, she snuck away to the kitchen.

Cleaned the dishes.

And returned… with two glasses of chilled Pinot Noir, a bottle sweating in her palm.

Not fancy. Just what they had in the fridge.

They opened the balcony door.

Sat on the floor. Legs tangled. Rain still falling. Lights off, only a warm amber glow from their bedroom filling the space.

He spread his legs. She sat between them. Close.

“Someone at work told me I had nice eyes,” he said, taking a sip.

She side-eyed him.

“And you’re bringing that up now?”

He grinned. “Just thought I’d let you know others notice too.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow. “Did you smile back?”

He grinned. “Nah. I saved it for you.”

She smirked. “Smooth.”

He reached over, ran an ice cube across her lips.

“Calling his nickname...” she whispered, breath catching.

Rubbed it down her neck.

Circling her nipples under her tank top.

She gasped.

She kissed him. Deep. Wet. Desperate.

Their tongues danced. Her fingers gripped his hair.

He flipped her beneath him. Pulled off her top.

Traced another ice cube from her lips… down to her chest… her armpits… her belly button…

Stopping just above her heat.

Not touching. Just teasing.

Her back arched. Her breath caught.

Cold. Want. Heat.

He was her storm. And her shelter.

And when she finally moaned, trembling from the edge he teased...

He dried her body with the towel. Kissed her everywhere. Let her melt against his chest.

Rain still falling outside… but inside, there was nothing but warmth.

“I wish I had the kulfis we used to eat as kids,” she whispered into his neck.

He smiled. “Say no more.”

In minutes, the kulfis arrived.

She unwrapped hers, licking slowly.

He… had other plans.

He slowly placed his kulfi between her legs, gently pressing it to her clit.

“Don’t waste it…” she moaned, squirming.

He laughed. “Who’s wasting?”

Just kissed her inner thigh, let the kulfi melt along her skin… and tasted her like she was dessert.

She grabbed his hair. Pulled. Moaned his name.

Using the kulfi like a brush, painting her in pleasure, and pressed and rubbed on her clit gently, followed up with circles, and as it melted, he continued—

Biting. Sucking. Circling.

Her body trembled. Her back arched.

And when he finally rubbed his hardness along her clit, by just inserting his love muscle and taking it out, he teased her.

She looked at him with half-lidded eyes, whispering, “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. Not until she went limp, breath shaking.

She gasped. Clawed. Moaned.

And he growled into her neck, “That’s my girl.”

He kissed her thighs.

Let her body come down… slow and sweet.

She curled into him, breathless, skin warm, lips still parted in pleasure.“I felt you… everywhere,” she whispered into his neck kissing his jaw….

He kissed her hair. “Let’s clean up first. Then… round two?”

They stripped the sheets—laughing, tangled.

Cleaned the mess.

Then melted back into each other.

Rain still dancing outside.

Inside?

Cleaned the bed.

Before laying in bed they just did a nakey dance seeing the rain outside and then he pinned her to the bed.

Then curled up again.

In each other’s warmth.

Rain pouring.

Love pulsing.

And two souls tangled beneath one blanket, in more ways than one.

As she was so scared of letting him all the way in straight, he’s taking things slow enough to make her feel safe, loved, and enjoyed—without rushing, but making her crave him and want more…

* Love Muscle - D

His breath hitched as she followed his guidance, moving along his love muscle with slow, deliberate intent. But then—she discovered something. The moment her fingers cupped just the tip, his moans came louder, raw, almost uncontrollable.

Curious, she lingered there—fingertips dancing in soft circles, her hand forming a petal-like cradle around his tip, delicate yet commanding. He twitched. Moaned. His head tilted back helplessly, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the way she touched him.

As his breathing deepened into heavy, uneven gasps, she leaned in and kissed him—tongue first, gentle, calming—while her thumb continued its slow, tormenting glide. And just when he thought he’d unravel, she wrapped her full hand around him, grounding him in her touch.

She whispered, “Are you okay?”

He could barely speak. “No… don’t stop. Yes… like that—please. I need to *feel* us, peacock. Please, go on…”

But before he could finish, she placed one hand firmly around his love muscle and began her trail of kisses—starting from his temple, across his closed eyelids, down the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his chin. Her lips barely brushed his skin, like poetry written with breath.

When she reached his neck, she let herself linger. Her body draped over his, her mouth painting heat all over his pulse points. And then—her hand began to move again. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough. Enough to push him back to that quivering edge.

And just as his moans began to build again, she paused.

Still holding him tight.

Still there.

But unmoving.

He whimpered, “Darling, please… don’t do this. I can’t… I can't hold it anymore. Please, take it out of me…”

Instead, she leaned in and kissed his chest. Her lips trailed to his nipples, where her tongue teased and her thumb returned to that wicked circle on his tip. He gasped, breath catching violently in his throat, moaning louder than he ever had—like he was about to pass out from pleasure.

She didn’t stop.

Until he was breathless.

And then—she covered his mouth with hers, swallowing every sound, every cry, every shiver of vulnerability. Her kiss was soft, comforting, a silent vow: *I’m right here with you.*

And he? He was on cloud nine. A beautiful kind of chaos. Because covering moans with kisses—it wasn’t just sensual. It was love. It was safety. It was devotion in its rawest form.

Once his breath found its rhythm again, he flipped her beneath him with one swift, eager motion. Holding both her hands above her head, he grinned wickedly as he began tickling her side with one hand.

“Why’d you stop midway, hmm? Do you know how damn frustrating that was?” he growled playfully.

She burst into laughter, writhing beneath him, giggling between gasps. “Wait—wait! I’ll tell you!”

Her voice dropped, soft and sultry. “I wanted to give you the highest highs. If we just go all in, it becomes a task. But if I stop you right at the edge… slow it down… make you ache and crave… then every second feels alive. It’s not just pleasure—it’s awakening.”

He stilled. In awe.

“Damn it, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re… you're a goddess. I swear, I felt it in my *bones.*”

And just like that, their story continued….

* Love Muscle - D

His breath hitched as she followed his guidance, moving along his love muscle with slow, deliberate intent. But then—she discovered something. The moment her fingers cupped just the tip, his moans came louder, raw, almost uncontrollable.

Curious, she lingered there—fingertips dancing in soft circles, her hand forming a petal-like cradle around his tip, delicate yet commanding. He twitched. Moaned. His head tilted back helplessly, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the way she touched him.

As his breathing deepened into heavy, uneven gasps, she leaned in and kissed him—tongue first, gentle, calming—while her thumb continued its slow, tormenting glide. And just when he thought he’d unravel, she wrapped her full hand around him, grounding him in her touch.

She whispered, “Are you okay?”

He could barely speak. “No… don’t stop. Yes… like that—please. I need to *feel* us, peacock. Please, go on…”

But before he could finish, she placed one hand firmly around his love muscle and began her trail of kisses—starting from his temple, across his closed eyelids, down the bridge of his nose, his cheek, his chin. Her lips barely brushed his skin, like poetry written with breath.

When she reached his neck, she let herself linger. Her body draped over his, her mouth painting heat all over his pulse points. And then—her hand began to move again. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough. Enough to push him back to that quivering edge.

And just as his moans began to build again, she paused.

Still holding him tight.

Still there.

But unmoving.

He whimpered, “Darling, please… don’t do this. I can’t… I can't hold it anymore. Please, take it out of me…”

Instead, she leaned in and kissed his chest. Her lips trailed to his nipples, where her tongue teased and her thumb returned to that wicked circle on his tip. He gasped, breath catching violently in his throat, moaning louder than he ever had—like he was about to pass out from pleasure.

She didn’t stop.

Until he was breathless.

And then—she covered his mouth with hers, swallowing every sound, every cry, every shiver of vulnerability. Her kiss was soft, comforting, a silent vow: *I’m right here with you.*

And he? He was on cloud nine. A beautiful kind of chaos. Because covering moans with kisses—it wasn’t just sensual. It was love. It was safety. It was devotion in its rawest form.

Once his breath found its rhythm again, he flipped her beneath him with one swift, eager motion. Holding both her hands above her head, he grinned wickedly as he began tickling her side with one hand.

“Why’d you stop midway, hmm? Do you know how damn frustrating that was?” he growled playfully.

She burst into laughter, writhing beneath him, giggling between gasps. “Wait—wait! I’ll tell you!”

Her voice dropped, soft and sultry. “I wanted to give you the highest highs. If we just go all in, it becomes a task. But if I stop you right at the edge… slow it down… make you ache and crave… then every second feels alive. It’s not just pleasure—it’s awakening.”

He stilled. In awe.

“Damn it, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re… you're a goddess. I swear, I felt it in my *bones.*”

And just like that, their story continued….

Anxious. Hesitant. Curious. But undeniably drawn. Drawn to him… to this moment… to the magnetic pull between them.

Her heart raced like it had a mind of its own, her thoughts spiraling with every possibility—her wildest desires mixing with innocent wonder. A part of her wanted to give him everything he’d ever dreamed of. Another part was scared to even breathe.

And yet, there he was—watching her like she was already his favorite kind of dessert. Not to consume, but to savor. Slowly. Tenderly. Passionately.

His eyes held a storm of emotions—desire, affection, restraint. Like he was making a silent promise to not just take her, but truly choose her.

With steady hands, he walked toward her, closed the little distance left, gently tucked her hair behind her ear, and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His thumb softly stroked her cheek—just enough to settle her storm.

“If you’re not ready, then neither am I,” he murmured with a quiet smile, “we’re not doing anything. We’ll just stay close. Talk. Cuddle. I’ll hold you till you fall asleep. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

And damn, it was just another turn-on she couldn’t ignore—too tempting to resist

She blinked, lips trembling with words she wasn’t sure how to say.

“No… I want to. I really do. I was just… scared of—”

“Hey,” he interrupted softly, “you don’t have to be. We take it slow. It’s not about the end… it’s about feeling every bit of it. Together.”

She nodded slowly, eyes lowered, her fingers brushing the hand still resting beneath her chin.

And then he whispered, “Do you want me to…?”

But before he could finish, she kissed him—soft and sudden. Lips barely touching at first, then deepening with every breath. Her kiss spoke the words she couldn’t say yet.

He sensed her nervousness even then. So he didn’t rush. He let her lead. Every touch was a question. Every pause, a choice.

He leaned in, pressing kisses to her lips, then down to her cheek, her temple. “Do you know how much these eyes of yours tease me?” he said, kissing her eyelids, down her neck, trailing to her collarbones like he was memorizing every inch.

And then he paused, looking into her eyes again. “We don’t have to rush. Just feel.”

She nodded, and for the first time, her nerves softened into curiosity. Bold curiosity.

He kissed his way down, letting her guide how far and how close. Her breath caught when his lips brushed places that made her gasp. Her body arched involuntarily, chasing the sensations, the heat, the unknown.

And even when it got overwhelming, even when her hands trembled against him, he held them—his right hand intertwining with her left, anchoring her. His presence told her,

I’m here. With you. Every second.

Afterward, they collapsed into each other—he still fully clothed, as if to remind her he came here to make her feel loved, not just desired.

She curled into his chest, pressing her ear against his heartbeat. Slowly, she began unbuttoning his shirt, resting her cheek against the warmth of his bare skin. Looking up into his eyes, she whispered nothing.

He smiled, brushing his lips against her hand on his chest.

“Did you… enjoy it?” he asked, cheeks warm with a blush he couldn't hide.

She didn’t answer with words. She just kissed him again.

He took her hand, kissed it, then placed it back over his heart.

“Part of me wants to show you more… Do you want to find out?”

She nodded, eyes wide and lips parted. Still trembling from her high.

He took her hand and guided it down—slowly, deliberately—until she felt him through his boxers. Her breath caught. She looked up at him, startled, and whispered:

Her eyes widened. “Is that… really…?”

He laughed, the sound soft and boyish. Then kissed her forehead.

Blushing, she pulled away, burying her face in his chest, covering her eyes with her hands like a shy kid.

But when she hid her face, cheeks burning, he lifted her chin again, making her meet his eyes.

He guided her hand again—this time underneath, onto his bare heat—and taught her how to touch him. How to move. How to make him feel what she felt. His breath hitched, lips parted, as he whispered her name like a prayer.

She felt powerful.

She felt trusted.

She felt wanted.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about connection. About finding something sacred in each other, a kind of intimacy that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, but unfolded in real time—mutual, soft, raw, real.

They weren’t just exploring bodies.

They were exploring love.

Because for him, this wasn’t just about a night. It was about them. And the beginning of something real.

Anxious. Hesitant. Curious. But undeniably drawn. Drawn to him… to this moment… to the magnetic pull between them.

Her heart raced like it had a mind of its own, her thoughts spiraling with every possibility—her wildest desires mixing with innocent wonder. A part of her wanted to give him everything he’d ever dreamed of. Another part was scared to even breathe.

And yet, there he was—watching her like she was already his favorite kind of dessert. Not to consume, but to savor. Slowly. Tenderly. Passionately.

His eyes held a storm of emotions—desire, affection, restraint. Like he was making a silent promise to not just take her, but truly choose her.

With steady hands, he walked toward her, closed the little distance left, gently tucked her hair behind her ear, and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His thumb softly stroked her cheek—just enough to settle her storm.

“If you’re not ready, then neither am I,” he murmured with a quiet smile, “we’re not doing anything. We’ll just stay close. Talk. Cuddle. I’ll hold you till you fall asleep. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

And damn, it was just another turn-on she couldn’t ignore—too tempting to resist

She blinked, lips trembling with words she wasn’t sure how to say.

“No… I want to. I really do. I was just… scared of—”

“Hey,” he interrupted softly, “you don’t have to be. We take it slow. It’s not about the end… it’s about feeling every bit of it. Together.”

She nodded slowly, eyes lowered, her fingers brushing the hand still resting beneath her chin.

And then he whispered, “Do you want me to…?”

But before he could finish, she kissed him—soft and sudden. Lips barely touching at first, then deepening with every breath. Her kiss spoke the words she couldn’t say yet.

He sensed her nervousness even then. So he didn’t rush. He let her lead. Every touch was a question. Every pause, a choice.

He leaned in, pressing kisses to her lips, then down to her cheek, her temple. “Do you know how much these eyes of yours tease me?” he said, kissing her eyelids, down her neck, trailing to her collarbones like he was memorizing every inch.

And then he paused, looking into her eyes again. “We don’t have to rush. Just feel.”

She nodded, and for the first time, her nerves softened into curiosity. Bold curiosity.

He kissed his way down, letting her guide how far and how close. Her breath caught when his lips brushed places that made her gasp. Her body arched involuntarily, chasing the sensations, the heat, the unknown.

And even when it got overwhelming, even when her hands trembled against him, he held them—his right hand intertwining with her left, anchoring her. His presence told her,

I’m here. With you. Every second.

Afterward, they collapsed into each other—he still fully clothed, as if to remind her he came here to make her feel loved, not just desired.

She curled into his chest, pressing her ear against his heartbeat. Slowly, she began unbuttoning his shirt, resting her cheek against the warmth of his bare skin. Looking up into his eyes, she whispered nothing.

He smiled, brushing his lips against her hand on his chest.

“Did you… enjoy it?” he asked, cheeks warm with a blush he couldn't hide.

She didn’t answer with words. She just kissed him again.

He took her hand, kissed it, then placed it back over his heart.

“Part of me wants to show you more… Do you want to find out?”

She nodded, eyes wide and lips parted. Still trembling from her high.

He took her hand and guided it down—slowly, deliberately—until she felt him through his boxers. Her breath caught. She looked up at him, startled, and whispered:

Her eyes widened. “Is that… really…?”

He laughed, the sound soft and boyish. Then kissed her forehead.

Blushing, she pulled away, burying her face in his chest, covering her eyes with her hands like a shy kid.

But when she hid her face, cheeks burning, he lifted her chin again, making her meet his eyes.

He guided her hand again—this time underneath, onto his bare heat—and taught her how to touch him. How to move. How to make him feel what she felt. His breath hitched, lips parted, as he whispered her name like a prayer.

She felt powerful.

She felt trusted.

She felt wanted.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about connection. About finding something sacred in each other, a kind of intimacy that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, but unfolded in real time—mutual, soft, raw, real.

They weren’t just exploring bodies.

They were exploring love.

Because for him, this wasn’t just about a night. It was about them. And the beginning of something real.

Anxious. Hesitant. Curious. But undeniably drawn. Drawn to him… to this moment… to the magnetic pull between them.

Her heart raced like it had a mind of its own, her thoughts spiraling with every possibility—her wildest desires mixing with innocent wonder. A part of her wanted to give him everything he’d ever dreamed of. Another part was scared to even breathe.

And yet, there he was—watching her like she was already his favorite kind of dessert. Not to consume, but to savor. Slowly. Tenderly. Passionately.

His eyes held a storm of emotions—desire, affection, restraint. Like he was making a silent promise to not just take her, but truly choose her.

With steady hands, he walked toward her, closed the little distance left, gently tucked her hair behind her ear, and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. His thumb softly stroked her cheek—just enough to settle her storm.

“If you’re not ready, then neither am I,” he murmured with a quiet smile, “we’re not doing anything. We’ll just stay close. Talk. Cuddle. I’ll hold you till you fall asleep. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

And damn, it was just another turn-on she couldn’t ignore—too tempting to resist

She blinked, lips trembling with words she wasn’t sure how to say.

“No… I want to. I really do. I was just… scared of—”

“Hey,” he interrupted softly, “you don’t have to be. We take it slow. It’s not about the end… it’s about feeling every bit of it. Together.”

She nodded slowly, eyes lowered, her fingers brushing the hand still resting beneath her chin.

And then he whispered, “Do you want me to…?”

But before he could finish, she kissed him—soft and sudden. Lips barely touching at first, then deepening with every breath. Her kiss spoke the words she couldn’t say yet.

He sensed her nervousness even then. So he didn’t rush. He let her lead. Every touch was a question. Every pause, a choice.

He leaned in, pressing kisses to her lips, then down to her cheek, her temple. “Do you know how much these eyes of yours tease me?” he said, kissing her eyelids, down her neck, trailing to her collarbones like he was memorizing every inch.

And then he paused, looking into her eyes again. “We don’t have to rush. Just feel.”

She nodded, and for the first time, her nerves softened into curiosity. Bold curiosity.

He kissed his way down, letting her guide how far and how close. Her breath caught when his lips brushed places that made her gasp. Her body arched involuntarily, chasing the sensations, the heat, the unknown.

And even when it got overwhelming, even when her hands trembled against him, he held them—his right hand intertwining with her left, anchoring her. His presence told her,

I’m here. With you. Every second.

Afterward, they collapsed into each other—he still fully clothed, as if to remind her he came here to make her feel loved, not just desired.

She curled into his chest, pressing her ear against his heartbeat. Slowly, she began unbuttoning his shirt, resting her cheek against the warmth of his bare skin. Looking up into his eyes, she whispered nothing.

He smiled, brushing his lips against her hand on his chest.

“Did you… enjoy it?” he asked, cheeks warm with a blush he couldn't hide.

She didn’t answer with words. She just kissed him again.

He took her hand, kissed it, then placed it back over his heart.

“Part of me wants to show you more… Do you want to find out?”

She nodded, eyes wide and lips parted. Still trembling from her high.

He took her hand and guided it down—slowly, deliberately—until she felt him through his boxers. Her breath caught. She looked up at him, startled, and whispered:

Her eyes widened. “Is that… really…?”

He laughed, the sound soft and boyish. Then kissed her forehead.

Blushing, she pulled away, burying her face in his chest, covering her eyes with her hands like a shy kid.

But when she hid her face, cheeks burning, he lifted her chin again, making her meet his eyes.

He guided her hand again—this time underneath, onto his bare heat—and taught her how to touch him. How to move. How to make him feel what she felt. His breath hitched, lips parted, as he whispered her name like a prayer.

She felt powerful.

She felt trusted.

She felt wanted.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about connection. About finding something sacred in each other, a kind of intimacy that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, but unfolded in real time—mutual, soft, raw, real.

They weren’t just exploring bodies.

They were exploring love.

Because for him, this wasn’t just about a night. It was about them. And the beginning of something real.

He comes closer, wraps his arms around your waist, and pulls you in. Then he pins you down, his weight pressing into you, fingers moving slow-teasing you with every little touch.

He tucks your hair out of the way, his thumb brushing across your lips, then leans in, whispering how beautiful you are, in that..soft, moany voice that sends chills down your spine.

His breath and nose nuzzle into the crook of your neck. With his eyes still locked on yours,he runs his hands over your chest, his mouth finding your sweet spots, nibbling just enough to make you go weak.

Then his hand slips lower, teasing you nice and slow, rubbing you right into heaven-completely in control, making sure you look at him while you're falling apart, still trying to catch your breath.

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