The silence wasn't empty; it was a thudding, pressurized space, punctuated only by the low, sustained hum of the city outside and the erratic, jackhammering rhythm of our overlapping heartbeats—throb, clench, drip, repeat—mirroring the endless pulse building in your core, demanding stroke after stroke.
I shifted my weight, the leather of the sofa squealing beneath us—a sharp, percussive squeak that cut through the haze, vibrating straight to the groin.
My hands left her hair, moving to the hem of her top.
I could feel the high-frequency vibration of her muscles just beneath the skin as I began to peel the fabric upward, inch by torturous inch, fabric snagging on her hardening nipples. It was a slow-motion reveal, the cloth dragging against her skin with a soft, static crackle, teasing the edge of exposure—hold, throb, ache.
