Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
He leads me to the edge of the bed, then stops, his hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders. "We go at your pace," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "You set the boundaries. You say stop, and we stop. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation."
I nod, touched by his care, by the way he puts my comfort above all else. "I understand."
"Good." His fingers trace along my collarbone, a feather-light touch that makes me shiver. "I'm going to touch you now. Just touch. Nothing more unless you ask for it."
"Yes," I breathe, anticipation coiling low in my belly.
His hands move to the top button of my blouse, pausing there. "May I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
With deliberate slowness, he begins to unbutton my blouse, his eyes never leaving mine. There's nothing rushed about his movements, nothing demanding—just careful attention, absolute presence.
When the last button gives way, he slides the silk from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. I stand before him in my bra, feeling strangely unself-conscious despite my inexperience. Something about the way he looks at me—with appreciation rather than assessment—makes me feel beautiful, desirable.
"Lovely," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, back up to the strap of my bra. "So lovely."
His touch is electric, sending warmth cascading through me with each careful exploration. He traces the lines of my collarbones, the hollow of my throat, the curve of my waist, all with the same reverent attention.
"Still okay?" he asks, his voice rougher now.
"Yes," I whisper. "Please don't stop."
A smile touches his lips, darkly sensual. "I won't."
His hands move to my waist, fingers tracing the waistband of my pants. "These next?"
I nod, breath catching as he slowly unfastens them, sliding them down my legs until I can step out of them. Now I stand before him in just my underwear, pulse racing with a combination of nervousness and excitement.
"Beautiful," he says again, and this time I believe him. The hunger in his eyes, the way his breath catches when he looks at me—it makes me feel powerful in a way I've never experienced.
He steps back slightly, giving me space. "Lie down," he suggests, gesturing to the bed. "Get comfortable."
I do as he asks, settling against the pillows, watching as he removes his sweater to reveal a fitted t-shirt beneath. His body is magnificent—broad shoulders, defined chest, the subtle play of muscles under olive skin. He keeps his pants on, another consideration that touches me deeply.
He stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand hovering over my midriff. "I'm going to touch you," he says, his voice a low murmur. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good."
I nod, anticipation making it hard to speak.
His hand settles on my stomach, warm and solid, before beginning a slow exploration upward. He traces the curve of my ribs, the valley between my breasts, the line of my collarbone, all with the same careful attention he's shown since the beginning.
When his fingers brush the swell of my breast above my bra, I gasp, the sensation sharper, more intense than I expected.
He pauses immediately. "Too much?"
"No," I breathe. "No, it's... good."
A smile curves his lips, knowing and gentle. "It gets better."
His fingers trace the edge of my bra, following the lace where it meets skin. The teasing touch makes me arch slightly, seeking more contact without knowing exactly what I'm asking for.
"Patience," he murmurs, amusement coloring his voice. "We have all night."
All night. The promise in those words sends heat pooling low in my belly.
His hand slides beneath me, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. "May I?"
"Yes," I whisper, beyond hesitation now.
With a flick of his fingers, the clasp gives way. He draws the straps down my arms, removing the garment with gentle efficiency. Then he simply looks at me, his eyes darkening with appreciation.
"Perfect," he says, voice rough with restraint.
Before I can feel self-conscious, his hand is there, cupping my breast with exquisite gentleness. His thumb brushes across my nipple, and I gasp at the sensation—sharp and sweet and utterly new.
"Good?" he asks again, watching my face intently.
"Yes," I breathe. "So good."
He repeats the caress, more deliberately this time, and my eyes flutter closed as pleasure courses through me. I've never felt anything like this—this focused attention, this careful building of sensation.
"Open your eyes," he rasps out. "I want to see you."
I do as he asks, meeting his gaze as he continues his gentle exploration. There's something intensely intimate about it—not just the physical contact, but the way he watches me, learning my responses, gauging my pleasure.
His hand moves lower, tracing patterns across my stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the edge of my underwear. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, his voice low and controlled.