The weight of him rests heavy agat my thigh, a warm, solid presence that seems to pulse with a life of its own. My fingers trace the path from the hard plane of his stomach downward, through the coarse, dark trail that leads like a promise. The scent of his skin, clean sweat and something uniquely male, fills my senses, making my head feel light. I let my palm cup the heat of him, feeling the velvet-soft skin stretched taut over an unyielding core. A low groan rumbles in his chest, vibrating through my own body as I begin a slow, deliberate exploration. My thumb finds the sensitive ridge beneath the crown, a slick bead of moisture betraying his building tension. Every slight shift of my wrist, every gentle squeeze, is answered by a sharp intake of breath or the tightening of his muscles beneath me. The world narrows to this single point of contact, to the rhythm we create together in the quiet dimness of the room. This is all there is, this shared heat and the silent, urgent language of touch.
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