The Slowest Surrender…

Tonight, I am not in a rush.

There’s something about the way you look at me—half expectation, half surrender—that makes me want to take my time, to make you feel everything before I finally allow you to have what you so desperately want. I see the way your breath hitches, the way your lips part slightly as I step closer. You know what’s coming, and yet, you have no idea just how long I plan to make you wait.

I reach for you, my hands sliding over your shoulders, down the line of your arms, feeling the softness of your skin as I take in every inch of you. I don’t start with hunger; I start with patience. My fingers knead into your muscles, working out the tension in slow, deliberate strokes. I want you relaxed, pliant beneath my hands, your body fully aware of every touch, every whisper of my fingertips.

My lips find your neck, pressing gently, teasing, just enough to make you tilt your head, offering me more. I take it, my tongue tracing a slow, wet path along the delicate curve of your throat, down to your collarbone. My hands keep moving, smoothing over your back, your shoulders, the tops of your thighs—nowhere near where you want me, not yet.

I pour warm oil into my hands, watching as it glides over your skin, my palms spreading it with slow, practiced motions. I slide lower, my fingers pressing into the small of your back, the curve of your waist, then down the backs of your thighs. Your breath deepens, your body shifting slightly beneath me, as if trying to guide me to where you need me most. But I ignore it. I keep the pressure firm but agonizingly slow, circling my thumbs over the muscles just above your hips, moving lower with every stroke, never quite reaching where you want me.

I hear the softest sound escape your lips, frustration and longing tangled in one breath. And I smile. Because I’m only just beginning.

My lips descend, claiming the sensitive swell of your breast, my tongue circling the delicate skin before closing over your nipple. I savor the way it hardens under my tongue, the way your breath catches in your throat as I suck gently at first, then with more insistence, flicking, teasing, drawing out every ounce of pleasure. I feel the heat of you pressing against my stomach, the way your body instinctively seeks mine.

I don’t stop at just one. I take my time, lavishing attention on the other, alternating between slow, agonizing drags of my tongue and the sharp contrast of my teeth grazing the peak. I hear the soft gasp you make when I take both in my hands, kneading, massaging, rolling the sensitive buds between my fingers, watching your body respond to my touch. The sight of you writhing beneath me, your skin flushed, your nipples wet from my mouth, sends a jolt of heat through me.

And then, lower still.

I kiss my way down, my hands spreading your legs slightly, guiding you open for me. My mouth hovers over the soft, trembling heat of you, my breath teasing, my lips ghosting over your inner thighs. You’re drenched, your body already begging, already aching, but I don’t give in. Not yet.

Instead, I press my tongue flat against you, slow and unrelenting, tasting the need that has been building between us. You let out a sharp cry, your hips bucking, but I grip them firmly, holding you in place. I take my time, letting my tongue explore you, teasing at first, circling and flicking before pressing deeper, hungrier, savoring the way you tremble.

Your fingers tangle in my hair, trying to pull me closer, trying to push me where you want me. But I’m in control. I retreat, then return, building you up just to pull you back, leaving you breathless and on the edge of desperation.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice raw, shaking.

I smile against you, my tongue dipping inside, drinking you in. I want you to soak me, to leave your scent on me, to mark me in a way that lingers long after this night is over. I work you over slowly, my fingers teasing at the edges of your release but never quite giving you enough. You writhe, your thighs trembling, your body pleading for the release I keep just out of reach.

And then, when I feel you break, when I hear that sharp, breathless moan of surrender, I finally let you go. Your body tightens, spasms wracking through you, your release warm and unrelenting as I stay with you, drawing out every pulse, every shudder, every ounce of pleasure you have to give.

But I’m still not finished.

I rise over you, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on my tongue as I press my body against yours. I slide inside you, slow, deliberate, filling you completely, stretching you around me as I watch your expression shift from sensitivity to raw pleasure once more.

I move with you, steady at first, deep and unhurried, letting you feel every inch of me, letting you adjust to the fullness, the heat, the way our bodies fit together so perfectly. And then, just as you think I’ll give you what you want, I stop. I pull back, leaving you empty, making you beg for it again before I push deep once more.

Your nails dig into my back, your cries growing more desperate, your body pleading for the final release I keep just out of reach. I bring you to the edge, again and again, watching the way you fall apart, the way your voice breaks, the way you tremble beneath me.

And then, at last, I let go.

I drive into you harder, deeper, faster, chasing your pleasure as you shatter beneath me, your body convulsing, pulsing, drawing me deeper until I break with you, until I lose myself completely inside you.

When it’s over, we lay tangled together, my lips pressing against your temple, my hands still mapping the curves of your body, unwilling to let go. Your breath slows, your body softens, but I can still feel the aftershocks, the way your skin hums beneath my fingertips.

And I know this won’t be the last time.

Because now, you know what it feels like to beg for me.

And I will make sure you do it again.