I catch your eyes across the room and everything else simply fades. That single look, steady and knowing, pulls me forward until the space between us vanishes. My hand finds your waist first, firm, guiding you closer until our bodies brush and the air grows thick with anticipation. No words yet, just the heat of my palm pressing you against me, my other hand sliding up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw as I tilt your face to mine.

The kiss starts slow, deep, my lips claiming yours with a hunger I’ve been holding back all day. Tongues dance, tasting, teasing, until I feel the tremor in you and the soft, desperate plea slips from your mouth against mine. “Use me,†you whisper, and the words send a rush straight through me. My hand shifts, settling gently around your throat—not tight, never tight, but present, powerful, the soft warmth of my palm a promise of control while I kiss you harder, deeper, drinking in the way you melt into it.

I take my time undressing you. Fingers work each button with deliberate care, letting the fabric part and slide away, layer by layer, until every scrap of clothing pools at your feet and you stand bare before me. God, the sight of you… I drink it in slowly, eyes tracing every curve, every line of muscle, the beautiful imperfections that make you real—the scatter of freckles across your shoulder, the faint dimple at your hip, the small scar that tells me you’ve lived fully. You are perfect in your natural form, and the appreciation in my gaze makes you flush even deeper.

My hands follow where my eyes have been. Palms glide over your skin, warm and sure, tracing the slope of your back, cupping the swell of your arse, massaging the tension from your shoulders until soft moans and whimpers spill from you. I bend you to my will with nothing more than touch—turning you, guiding you down onto the bed, arranging you exactly as I want you, open and aching and mine. You tremble under me, begging without words now, hips lifting in silent plea.

Only then do I lower my mouth to your flesh. I taste the salt of your perspiration first, tongue dragging slow, reverent lines across your collarbone, down the centre of your chest, lower still until I reach the slick heat of your excitement. I take your genitals into my mouth with a low, satisfied sound—sucking gently at first, then with more purpose, tongue swirling, lips tight, savouring every twitch and pulse. I control the rhythm, drawing you right to the edge with slow, deliberate strokes, then easing back, letting the ache build until you’re shaking, whimpering my name, lost in the sweet torment of being edged so perfectly.

I feel it when you can’t hold on any longer—the way your thighs tense, your breath stutters, your whole body straining toward release. Only then do I give you what you need, mouth working faster, deeper, relentless until the climax crashes through you. You come hard under my tongue, hips bucking, every muscle locking tight as pleasure floods you in long, rolling waves. I stay right there, drawing it out, tasting every shudder, every sigh, until you’re spent and trembling and utterly, beautifully undone in my hands.