The Rhythm of Our Breath
I keep my eyes closed, but I can feel your presence filling the room. You enter silently, a ghost of desire, and though I remain still, I know you are watching me. The knowledge that your gaze is tracing the lines of my naked body makes my skin prickle with an electric heat. I lie upon the crisp, white sheets, their neatness a challenge, a blank canvas waiting for us to tear them apart.
My hands begin to move, guided by a hunger that only you can sate. I slide my palms over my chest and down my neck, imagining that it is your touch instead of my own. My fingers drift lower, tracing slow, agonizing circles over my intimacy, a silent plea for you to close the distance between us. I can feel your breath hitch, your anticipation mirroring my own as you watch the rhythmic motion of my hands.
Then, I feel you. You lean in, your lips grazing my ear, your voice a low vibration that sends a shiver down my spine. Your hands replace mine, claiming me with a possessive urgency that leaves me breathless. We merge in a chaotic symphony of skin and sweat, the sheets twisting around us as we lose ourselves in the heat of the moment.