Molly 1-844-332-2639 ext 449
His hands were trapped beneath my own, pinned gently but firmly against the mattress. His breath came in ragged, uneven shallow puffs, his eyes wide and dark with a desperate, beautiful focus.
“Please,” he whispered, the syllable catching in his throat.
“Not yet,” I replied, my voice a low, teasing thread in the quiet room.
I leaned down, tracing the line of his jaw with the tip of my tongue. Deliberate and slow. Every movement I made was a calculated exercise in restraint. I dragged my fingertips down his chest, barely skimming the surface of his skin. Watching the way his muscles jumped in response to the agonizingly light touch. He arched into it, searching for the deep, heavy friction he craved. I shifted my weight just out of reach, denying him release.
Keeping someone on the precipice is a delicate art. It requires reading the exact moment the tension becomes too much to bear, and then pulling back just a fraction of an inch.
I hovered over him, letting my hair brush against his skin. I pressed against him, offering an agonizingly fleeting, brief taste of full contact. Then slowing the rhythm down to a tortuous crawl. He let…
The Edge of Pleasure
His hands were trapped beneath my own, pinned gently but firmly against the mattress. His breath came in ragged, uneven shallow puffs, his eyes wide and dark with a desperate, beautiful focus.
“Please,” he whispered, the syllable catching in his throat.
“Not yet,” I replied, my voice a low, teasing thread in the quiet room.
I leaned down, tracing the line of his jaw with the tip of my tongue. Deliberate and slow. Every movement I made was a calculated exercise in restraint. I dragged my fingertips down his chest, barely skimming the surface of his skin. Watching the way his muscles jumped in response to the agonizingly light touch. He arched into it, searching for the deep, heavy friction he craved. I shifted my weight just out of reach, denying him release.
Keeping someone on the precipice is a delicate art. It requires reading the exact moment the tension becomes too much to bear, and then pulling back just a fraction of an inch.
I hovered over him, letting my hair brush against his skin.
I pressed against him, offering an agonizingly fleeting, brief taste of full contact. Then slowing the rhythm down to a tortuous crawl. He let out a low groan, his hips twitching involuntarily; begging for the rhythm to change, for the dam to burst.
“Look at me,” I commanded softly.
He forced his eyes open, glassy and unfocused with pleasure. I held his gaze, anchoring him right there on the sharp, exquisite boundary between longing and fulfillment. I gave him just enough to keep the fire burning, but withheld the spark that would ignite it. He was entirely at my mercy, suspended in a beautiful, agonizing amber of pure sensation; knowing that the longer I held him here, the sweeter the inevitable fall would be.
Molly 1-844-332-2639 ext 449