There’s something about the quiet moments before a date that always gets me wet.
The dim glow of the lamp. The scent of my perfume still lingering in the air. The final spritz of setting spray before slipping on my soft silk robe. Everything is warm, golden, slow.
I hear the knock at the door, and I smile to myself.
I wonder what’s going through his head as he waits on the other side.
Is he picturing what I’m wearing? Imagining if I’m already wet? Wondering if I’ve been thinking about him the way he’s clearly been thinking about me?
When I open the door, I watch his eyes take me in. Not just the robe, not just my bare legs, but the curve of my smile—the one that says I’ve missed you without saying a word.
He steps in, and I gently close the door behind him.
“You smell like sex and temptation,” he says, leaning in to kiss me.
I smile against his lips. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
I guide him to the bed, not forcefully—just enough. My fingers graze his belt as he kisses the line of my collarbone, slow and unhurried.
He smells like whiskey and aftershave, and when I press my body to his, I feel the way his cock is already hard beneath his pants. I reach for it, lazily stroking through the fabric.
“God,” he whispers. “You always know exactly how to touch me.”
I press a kiss to his neck and undo his belt, then slide down to my knees—not because I have to. Because I want to.
I take my time, licking slowly up the underside of his shaft before sliding him into my mouth, moaning as I do, because it’s not just for him. It’s for me too. I love the weight of him on my tongue. The way his body reacts to every flick, every pull, every messy, hungry stroke.
When he grips my hair and says, “Baby, you’re going to make me come,” I pull away just in time.
“Not yet,” I whisper, kissing his hip as I crawl back onto the bed.
I pull him down on top of me. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. His cock presses against my entrance and we just pause there—breathing, aching.
And when he slides inside me?
It’s slow. Deep. Like we’ve got nowhere else to be.
His mouth on my shoulder. My nails in his back. The sheets twisted around us as we move in rhythm, hips rocking, his breath growing faster with mine.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moans, forehead resting against mine.
I wrap my legs around him and whisper, “Come with me.”
And when we do—at the same time, bodies tangled, completely lost in each other—it doesn’t feel like release.
It feels like worship.