The bedroom still smells faintly of cedar from the candle I blew out an hour ago.
Everything is quiet except the low fan hum and the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling.
You’re already in bed when I slip in—shirt gone, one arm thrown over your head, the other resting low across your stomach like you’re unconsciously guarding the territory I’m about to invade. The sheet has slipped just past your hipbones. Not an accident. You never let things like that happen by accident.
I don’t say anything. Words would break the temperature we’ve been building all day with nothing but glances and single-word texts.
Instead I crawl onto the mattress slow enough that you feel every shift of weight. Knees bracketing your thighs. The silk of my slip catches on the hair along your legs and makes a soft hiss—small sound, big effect. Your stomach flexes once, involuntary.
I lean down until my hair curtains us both. My mouth hovers over the pulse point under your jaw, close enough that you feel the heat of my exhale but not the contact.
“You’ve been patient,” I whisper. Barely sound. Mostly breath.
Your answer is the smallest lift of hips. Not begging—yet. Just reminding me what’s waiting.
I drag one fingernail from the center of your chest straight down. Slow. No pressure. Just enough to wake every nerve without giving any of them what they actually want. When I reach the waistband of your boxers I hook two fingers under the elastic and tug once—light, playful, cruel—then let it snap back against skin.
A low sound leaves your throat. Not quite a groan. More dangerous than that.
I smile against your neck. “That’s the noise I waited for all day.”
Then I finally let my mouth touch you—open, wet, deliberate—at the place where neck becomes shoulder. Teeth graze, tongue follows, suction just hard enough to leave a faint violet shadow by morning. You arch. Fingers find my hair, not pulling, just holding on like you’re afraid I’ll vanish if you don’t.
I work lower. Collarbone. Sternum. The flat plane above your navel. Every inch gets the same leisurely attention until your breathing has turned ragged and your free hand is fisting the sheet so hard the fabric is white at the knuckles.
When I finally nose along the length of you through cotton, you swear—quiet, inventive, half-laughing at yourself for already sounding wrecked.
I peel the boxers down inch by torturous inch. No rush. I want to watch the way your thighs tense, the way your abs ripple every time my breath ghosts over newly exposed skin.
And then—finally—skin on skin.
No hands yet. Just my mouth hovering. Close enough that every exhale feels like contact. You’re leaking steadily now; a slow, shining trail that catches the hallway light coming under the door.
“Look at you,” I murmur, lips brushing the head as I speak so the words vibrate. “Making such a pretty mess before I’ve even started.”
Your hips jerk. You catch yourself halfway through the thrust and force your back flat again. Polite ruin. I love that contrast in you—how strong you are, how completely you surrender the second I ask for it.
Only then do I wrap my fingers around the base. Firm. No stroking. Just holding. Claiming. My tongue draws one slow, flat line from root to tip, collecting everything you’ve already given me.
The sound you make is broken. Beautiful.
I take you deeper—slow, wet, unhurried—until my nose brushes your skin and your whole body locks. I stay there a long moment, throat relaxed, letting you feel the tight heat surround every inch.
Then I pull back just as slowly.
Again.
And again.
Until your thighs are trembling and your hand in my hair has gone from holding to guiding to pleading.
I finally let rhythm happen.
Not fast. Not yet.
Just deep, steady pulls that match the thudding pulse I can feel against my tongue. Every time I sink down your hips lift to meet me; every time I rise you exhale like you’re dying a little.
When your breathing turns sharp—when the little curses start coming on every exhale—I know you’re close.
I don’t speed up.
I take you to the back of my throat one more time, hold, swallow around you.
Your whole body bows.
The first pulse hits hard; I don’t pull away. I work you through it—slow, milking pulls—until you’re shuddering, gasping, fingers clenched in my hair like it’s the only thing keeping you on the planet.
When you finally go limp I crawl back up your body, licking my lips, smug and soft at the same time.
You drag me down, kiss me like you’re trying to taste yourself on my tongue, then flip us so I’m under you.
“Your turn,” you rasp, voice still wrecked. “And I’m not feeling patient anymore.”
The fan keeps spinning.
The floorboards keep creaking.
And the night is suddenly very far from over.
Check back Tuesday night for Part 2, or call me tonight to sin together.
Our number is in my name: 888-750-4SIN (4746) X832