Gwen
Foreheads pressed together, we breathed the same quiet air. He stayed completely still inside me, buried so deep I could feel every pulse of him. My hands slid down his bare back, holding him close, almost afraid the moment might disappear if I let go.
He feels different.
Not rushed. Not paid for. Not like every other time I had bought his body and told myself it was enough. This time it felt chosen. Soft. Real.
“You feel… different,” I whispered.
“I know,” he answered, voice low and rough with something that sounded like emotion. “This is different.”
Only then did he begin to move.
Deep, slow, loving thrusts. Each one was careful and full, drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in to the root. The wet, gentle sound of our bodies meeting filled the quiet apartment.
