"The Way He Touched Me"

I wasn’t expecting to see him that night.

It was just a casual get-together—friends, drinks, laughter. But then he walked in. Tall, broad shoulders, dark skin glowing under the low lights. That slow, confident stride like he already knew the effect he had on me. His eyes met mine, and it was like everything around us faded. Just him. Just me.

The tension crackled immediately. Every brush of his arm against mine felt like a promise. He didn’t say much at first, just looked at me with that deep, quiet intensity that made my breath catch.

Later, when the others had drifted off and the night had turned to a hush, we ended up in the kitchen—just us. I was sipping wine, trying to play it cool, but he stepped closer, leaned in, and whispered, "You’ve been looking at me like you want something. Say it."

My heart pounded. I didn’t answer—I didn’t have to. He knew.

He took the glass from my hand and set it aside, then gently pressed me back against the counter. His hands were warm, strong, exploring the curve of my waist like he’d been imagining this as much as I had. When his lips touched mine, everything melted. It was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring me.

His body pressed against mine, hard and demanding. He kissed down my neck, his hands slipping beneath my shirt, and I gasped as his mouth found that spot just beneath my ear. He growled low, "I've been patient... but I want to hear you beg."

I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to. I let go completely.

That night wasn’t just passion—it was power, rhythm, skin on skin. He took his time, making sure I felt every inch of him, every stroke, every whisper in my ear. And when he finally filled me—deep, slow, intense—I knew I’d never forget the way he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

And even now... I still crave that look in his eyes. Like I was his fantasy too.

Related Posts

More Related Posts