She wasnât wrong. My whole body felt wired, every nerve lit up from how gentle she was being.
Her thumb brushed over the tip thenâaccidental at first, just the edge of it. But when she felt the wetness there, she paused.
"Oh..." she breathed, circling it slowly, spreading the bead with the pad of her thumb. Light. Curious.
I hissed in a breath. "FuckâAria..."
She froze. "Too much?"
"No," I said quickly. "Just... sensitive there."
She nodded, eyes wide. Then did it againâslower this time. Deliberate. Watching how my abs tensed, how my hand gripped the sofa cushion.
"I didnât know it would be this... slippery," she said softly, almost to herself.
I let out a shaky laugh. "Only because youâre doing this to me."
Her fingers wrapped around me again, fuller this time. She started a slow, tentative strokeâup and down, loose grip, soft palm gliding over heated skin.
Not fast. Not skilled.
But perfect.
Because it was her.
Because every little pause, every soft squeeze, every time she glanced up to check my faceâit all said the same thing.
She wanted to get this right.
For me.
For herself.
"You feel so hard," she whispered, voice trembling just a little. "Like... velvet over steel."
I groaned again, deeper this time. "Keep talking like that and I wonât last long."
She smiledâsmall, shy, pleased with herself.
Her rhythm stayed slow. Unhurried. Like she had all the time in the world to learn this.
Up... pause at the head, thumb brushing lightly.
Down... fingers tightening just slightly at the base.
Up again.
Each stroke sent heat rolling through me, building slow and heavy.
I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, then let my hand rest on her thighâwarm, grounding.
"Youâre driving me crazy," I said low.
"Good crazy?" she asked, voice soft, hopeful.
"The best kind."
I let it go on for a few more strokes, just feeling her softness, her curiosity, the way she was learning me with every gentle pass.
Then I moved my hand from her thigh, sliding it slowly up her arm until my fingers covered hersâloose, not taking over, just resting there.
"Hey," I whispered, voice low and rough. "Can I show you something?"
She nodded immediately, eyes flicking up to mine, dark and trusting. Her rhythm slowed, waiting.
I curled my fingers over hers, guiding her grip just a little tighterânot hard, just enough to add pressure. Then I moved our hands together: a slow, firm stroke from base to tip, twisting gently at the top so her palm glided over the sensitive head.
She followed the motion perfectly, breath catching as she felt the difference.
"Like that," I murmured. "A little tighter... feels incredible."
Her lips parted on a soft exhale. "Okay..."
We did it againâtogether. Slow pull up, twist, slide down. My thumb nudged hers, showing her how to press lightly along the underside on the way back up.
She shiveredâfull bodyâand I felt her thighs press together beside mine.
"You feel that?" I asked quietly, guiding us into another stroke. "How it throbs when you do it right?"
"Yeah," she breathed, voice trembling. Her free hand gripped my shirt, knuckles brushing my chest. "I feel it."
I kept our hands movingâunhurried, steadyâletting her take more of the control each time. After a few strokes, I loosened my fingers, letting her lead while my hand stayed over hers, encouraging.
She picked it up fast. Grip firmer now, twist at the top smoother, thumb sweeping over the tip each time, spreading the wetness down the length.
Every pass made her breathing quicker, shallower.
I slid my free hand to her waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of her shirtâbarely an inch, just enough to touch warm skin. She didnât flinch. If anything, she leaned into it.
"Youâre getting me so worked up," I said against her temple. "And youâre shaking again."
She let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I canât help it. Itâs... intense. Feeling you like this."
My thumb traced slow circles on the skin of her lower back, just above the waistband of her jeans. Light. Soothing. But deliberate.
Her hips shiftedâsmall, involuntaryâpressing closer to my side.
"Tell me if you want me to stop touching you," I whispered.
"Donât," she said quickly, almost desperate. "Please donât."
I traced higher under her shirtâslow inches, fingertips grazing the soft skin along her spine. Every time I moved up, she arched just slightly into my touch.
"Youâre so warm here," I murmured, thumb brushing the edge of her bra strap.
She whimperedâquiet, surprised at herselfâand her hand tightened around me on the next stroke.
"Good girl," I breathed, without thinking.
Her whole body flushed hot against me. I felt it.
She tucked her face into my neck, lips brushing my skin accidentallyâor notâas she kept moving her hand.
Slow.
Firm.
Perfect.
And getting faster now, like the arousal building in me was echoing back into her.
Like showing her how to touch me was teaching her how much she liked being touched too.
We stayed like thatâher hand on me, my hand on her back, guiding, encouraging, exploring.
Breathing the same air.
Getting lost in the same heat.
Neither of us in a hurry to stop.
But after a few more minutes of her soft, steady strokesâtwisting at the top, squeezing gently at the baseâthe pressure built in a way that wasnât releasing. It was good, damn good, but it wasnât enough. The ache deepened, like my body was wound too tight, begging for more friction, more heat, something to push me over.
I shifted my hips slightly, trying to chase it without making it obvious, but she felt it. Her hand slowed, fingers loosening just a bit.
"You okay?" she whispered against my neck, voice laced with concern.
I let out a rough breath, hand stilling on her back. "Yeah. Itâs just... building up. Feels amazing, but Iâm not... there yet."
She pulled back enough to look at me, eyes wide and searching, cheeks still pink. Her hand stayed wrapped around me, warm and still. "Did I do something wrong?"