The room was bathed in the soft, hazy glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, but the only light I needed was the one reflecting in his eyes. We lay there, tangled in the sheets, the air heavy with the electric tension that always seemed to crackle between us. I glanced down at his hand, resting lazily on his stomach, and decided to break the silence with a little invitation.

“Watch me,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling radiator. I shifted my hips, my fingers tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh before sliding higher, finding that familiar, aching rhythm. His gaze locked onto me instantly, hungry and devouring. It’s a different kind of power dynamic when you’re not just fumbling in the dark; it’s raw, visual, and intensely intimate. I watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his thumb brushed against the waistband of his boxers, mirroring my own movements.

I wanted to see him fall apart just as much as I wanted to feel the pressure building in my core. I leaned in, capturing his lips in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, my hand still moving against myself. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quiet room, a lewd symphony that drove me wild. I could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, his breath hitching in his throat as he watched me. It wasn’t just about the friction anymore; it was about the shared vulnerability, the knowledge that he was right there, feeling every ripple of pleasure as I pushed myself closer to the edge.

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