“Not a muscle?”
“Not even a twitch.”
She pauses, but then
decides to trust me. Her hand slides along my thigh, her fingers light and tentative.
She glides along the curve of my muscle. Her other hand skims my chest. Goosebumps form where she touches, and her fingers pause at my groin.
Her other hand stops at my hardened nipple.
Her mouth is a perfect rosebud, pursed in concentration. She’s timid, but she wants to.
So she does.
My brave girl moves her hand, and touches me.
She outlines my shaft through my pajama pants, and sucks in a breath as I harden beneath her fingers.
“You twitched,” she breathes.
I grin. “He’s got a mind of his own. I apologize.”
“Don’t,” she says. “I like it.”
“So do I.”
Her lips curve up, and God, how I wish she’d use that mouth on me.
True to my word, though, I remain still. I make no suggestions. I say not a word.
Her hands trace my body, every muscle, every bulge.
“You’re strong,” she points out.
“Yes.”
“I feel safe with you.”
“Good.”
I’d protect her with my life.
Her breath is coming in tiny pants now. She wants me.
I want her.
She stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses my mouth. I want to pull her close to me, but I’m true to my word. My hands stay by my sides, and she plunges her tongue into my mouth, exploring, sensing, seeking.
She moans.
My groin tightens.
I want to roll her over and plunge into her.
But I don’t.
I practice restraint.