The atmosphere in the room compressed, growing heavy and thick like damp wool against my lungs, every breath a labored drag pulling you deeper into the haze—throb, throb, throb.
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.
