Soft Dancing, Slow Worship

Some nights, I just want comfort — a warm room, soft light, a blanket tossed carelessly over the couch. He thinks it means I’m settling in to relax with him. But he never notices the way I watch him… waiting for the perfect moment.

I climb into his lap like I’m just getting cozy. My body drapes over his, warm and soft, my head resting against his neck. But then I shift — hips rolling just a little, my lingering breath brushing his ear — and he freezes. He knows that movement too well.

Where warmth turns into a slow, sinful dance

I stand in front of him slowly, letting my lingerie catch the light as I move my body in a slow, teasing sway. Nothing rushed. Just the kind of dance that makes his breath go shallow and his eyes follow every curve like he’s already falling apart. When he reaches for me, I slip just out of his grasp. A tiny step back. A soft smile. “No,” I whisper. “If you want to stroke… you start by worshipping me.”

And he does. Every time. Kisses on my thighs, hands on my waist, voice shaking as he tells me how beautiful I look, how soft my skin feels, how badly he wants to touch what I won’t give him yet. Only when he trembles — needy, obedient, undone — do I nod. “Now,” I breathe. “Show me how good you are… while you adore every inch of me.” That cozy moment becomes the hottest part of the night.