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Her glasses slipped down her nose as she knelt before him, the cool lenses catching the dim lamplight like a whispered secret. The sheer whisper of her stockings brushed against his thighs, a silken prelude to the fever building between them. Her short, pale hair fell in soft waves, framing the delicate curve of her jaw as she looked up with a longing that made his breath catch. He tangled his fingers in those golden strands, a gentle anchor as her lips traced a path of slow, deliberate heat along his skin. The anticipation was a living thing, coiling in the air like smoke, each brush of her mouth a spark against his waiting flesh. Her hands, trembling with a desire she could no longer hide, found him, and the world narrowed to the rhythm of her touch. A low, unsteady sound escaped him, a raw confession that made her smile against his warmth, her own pleasure deepening with every beat of his pulse. He drew her up, her body a fluid line of yearning against his, and the weight of her settled into a perfect, ancient rhythm. When he laid her back, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin, her gasp was a prayer answered by his slow, deliberate descent. They moved together in the hush of the room, a tide of passion and connection that erased every thought but the exquisite ache of being wholly, completely known.
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