Isla's words coil through him like fire under the skin, and though his cheeks flush hotly, Ever drinks them in with something close to reverence. He pulls in a breath sharply through his nose, controlled but unmistakably aroused, and the absence of her weight in his lap leaves him momentarily aching, his fingers flexing against the sheets before he forces himself to let go.
Ever doesn’t move at first, just watches; watches the blush on her skin bloom under the lanternlight, the practiced, deliberate way her hands skim down her body in the mirror, the lace slipping away with fluid inevitability. Though his mind craves patterns and clarity, there’s nothing he wants more in the moment than this: her curves, her eyes in the reflection, the absolute intent behind every movement.
When he does stand, it’s with precise control, his frame unfolding easily as he steps to join her. Fingertips brush along the outside of her thighs, featherlight and almost clinical in their delicacy, cataloguing warmth, texture, shape. They trail higher until they rest at her waist, just enough pressure to anchor her without disrupting the scene unfolding in the mirror. His gaze doesn’t waver from hers in the reflection, drinking her in completely while he stays tethered by the steadiness of her presence.
Then his hands withdraw, dropping to his belt with mechanical precision, sliding it free and unfastening his pants. He peels them down and, without breaking eye contact, folds them neatly, corners aligned in a gesture so utterly Everest that it contrasts brutally with the hard and greedy length of his cock. The garment is set aside, placed carefully on the bed, before he straightens again. His erection fills the small gap between them, measured and insistent, his chest rising a little faster now, though his expression remains fixed on her in the mirror—hungry, reverent, utterly undone and yet contained all at once. "Gods you're stunning."
Ever doesn’t move at first, just watches; watches the blush on her skin bloom under the lanternlight, the practiced, deliberate way her hands skim down her body in the mirror, the lace slipping away with fluid inevitability. Though his mind craves patterns and clarity, there’s nothing he wants more in the moment than this: her curves, her eyes in the reflection, the absolute intent behind every movement.
When he does stand, it’s with precise control, his frame unfolding easily as he steps to join her. Fingertips brush along the outside of her thighs, featherlight and almost clinical in their delicacy, cataloguing warmth, texture, shape. They trail higher until they rest at her waist, just enough pressure to anchor her without disrupting the scene unfolding in the mirror. His gaze doesn’t waver from hers in the reflection, drinking her in completely while he stays tethered by the steadiness of her presence.
Then his hands withdraw, dropping to his belt with mechanical precision, sliding it free and unfastening his pants. He peels them down and, without breaking eye contact, folds them neatly, corners aligned in a gesture so utterly Everest that it contrasts brutally with the hard and greedy length of his cock. The garment is set aside, placed carefully on the bed, before he straightens again. His erection fills the small gap between them, measured and insistent, his chest rising a little faster now, though his expression remains fixed on her in the mirror—hungry, reverent, utterly undone and yet contained all at once. "Gods you're stunning."
I will not be brave
but i'm grateful to get through
but i'm grateful to get through
