Surrender without Shame

my eyes begging when my mouth couldn’t form the words

The silence between us wasn’t empty. It was thick, humming, alive — filled with the sound of our breathing, the slick drag of skin on skin, the weight of everything we hadn’t said but already knew. He leaned in, chest pressing against mine, and I could feel the beat of his heart knocking against my own like it was trying to sync itself with me.

I didn’t move at first. I just let my palms roam across him — over his shoulders, down the ridges of his back, along the curve of muscle that pulled tight as he held me. My nails sank in just enough to make him grunt, and that sound alone sent heat rushing through me all over again.

I didn’t need to tell him what I wanted. He read it in my touch. In the way my thighs opened wider. In the way I lifted my hips toward his. In the way my eyes refused to look anywhere else but at him.

He answered back in his own language: the grip of his hands on my waist, pulling me closer until I was pressed flush against him; the slow grind of his hips, teasing me with what I already knew was mine; the low growl in his throat, deep and raw, like a man losing patience with his own restraint.

“damn….,” I whispered, not even sure if I meant it as a curse or a prayer. Maybe it was both.