The soft glow of the screen illuminated the faint sheen of sweat on my skin as I watched her, my breath catching in time with the rhythmic motion of my own hand. Her mouth fell open in a silent, breathless gasp, a perfect O of shock and pleasure that sent a jolt straight through me. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, seemed to stare through the digital divide, seeing only the ecstasy consuming her from within. A delicate flush crept from her chest up her neck, painting her skin a feverish pink as her head lolled back agat the pillow. The sharp, quickening cadence of my own pulse thrummed in my ears, a frantic drumbeat matching the desperate pace I set for myself. Every subtle twitch of her features, every shudder that wracked her frame, was a command my body was helpless to disobey. The world narrowed to this singular, primal connection, the visual symphony of her release conducting the physical crescendo of my own. I could almost feel the phantom heat of her skin, hear the choked whimpers that must have been escaping her lips as I drove myself relentlessly toward the edge. The tension coiled tight in my gut, a spring wound to its breaking point, ready to snap under the exquisite pressure of the shared, yet solitary, climax.
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