There’s this specific, electric kind of tension that hits when things stop being polite and start getting heavy. It’s that moment when his hands finally lose their patience and move from a gentle graze to a real, possessive grip. I can feel the rough denim of my jeans sliding down my hips, catching on my skin, while his palm anchors itself right where I want it most.
It’s the weight of him against my back—that solid, warm heat—and the way his fingers dig in just enough to let me know he’s not asking anymore. My heart is thumping against my ribs, and everything else just blurs out. There’s no more talking, just the sound of our breathing getting shallow and the raw, heavy friction of skin on skin. It’s that primal pull, that “whatever, wherever” energy where the only thing that matters is the pressure of his hand and the fact that he’s finally taking exactly what I’ve been craving. It’s messy, it’s unscripted, and it’s the most natural high in the world.
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