She already knows the answer, but asking feels better — lips parted, eyes tilted up at you with that particular mix of innocence and intent that makes your hands forget what they were doing.

You trace the curve of her hip slowly, deliberately, letting her feel exactly how unhurried you plan to be. She shifts, impatient, and you smile against her skin because patience was never her strongest quality.

Your mouth moves lower. She exhales sharply, fingers threading into your hair, grip tightening — and you haven't even started yet.