[ If you ever bring yourself to ask him about why he does this, he'd tell you that it's because it often isn't the acts itself that kill you at the end of it: it's the anticipation. The anticipation, the expectation, makes everything that much better. Perhaps you already know this intrinsically, though. Perhaps he's threaded it deep into your bones already, and written it down on every blood cell in your body.
There will be nothing for about a minute, and that minute, he is certain, will feel like an eternity. Then there's the shift of his body over those sheets, the heat of the precise way he fills the air hovering closer. It's followed by the sensation of just the tips of his fingers ghosting along your jawline, shifting up, tracing your lips. Then he's hooking those fingers of his in your mouth, sliding over your tongue. ]
I don't need to fill this mouth of yours up for you to know when I want you to be quiet, do I?
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There will be nothing for about a minute, and that minute, he is certain, will feel like an eternity. Then there's the shift of his body over those sheets, the heat of the precise way he fills the air hovering closer. It's followed by the sensation of just the tips of his fingers ghosting along your jawline, shifting up, tracing your lips. Then he's hooking those fingers of his in your mouth, sliding over your tongue. ]
I don't need to fill this mouth of yours up for you to know when I want you to be quiet, do I?