She's stretched across the sheets like an open invitation, hips tilted just enough to make your jaw ache before you've even started.

You trace the soft weight of her thighs with both hands, thumbs pressing inward, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin while she watches you with that particular patience that's really just pressure in disguise.

You go slow, deliberate, mapping every curve until your tongue burns and your neck aches and she's gripping the headboard — and she still hasn't told you to stop.