The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was a thudding, pressurized space that sat heavy on my chest, broken only by the low, distant hum of the city outside and the erratic, jackhammering rhythm of our overlapping heartbeats.
Throb, clench, drip, repeat.
I could feel the heat radiating off him in waves—a shimmering wall of warmth that made the air between us feel thick, almost ionized, as if the oxygen itself were being burned away by the friction of our proximity.
I shifted my weight, and the leather of the sofa let out a sharp, percussive squeal that vibrated straight through my core, a sound so loud in the quiet that it felt like it was echoing inside my marrow.
My hands left his hair, moving slowly to the hem of my top. My muscles were humming, a high-frequency tremor running just beneath my skin as I began to peel the fabric up.
It was slow, agonizingly so.
