He sends you to bed early. It's not as if you're tired; he just wants you to wait. You know as you undress and slide into the sheets that he is outside, smoking his last cigarette, watching the wisps of smoke slither and crawl and dissipate into the darkness. He wants you tense. He wants the air thick with it.
You can hear his footsteps echoing down the hall leading to your bedroom. He left his boots on, of course he did. He walks slowly. Deliberately. A feverish desire is slinking through the shadows. You hear the doorknob turn, the lock clicking, the sound of a belt buckle unlatching. You think he hangs his thick leather belt on the door -- it's hard to see in the overwhelming darkness. You feel his movement, his shirt being unbuttoned, neatly folded and put aside. The sound of boots being unlaced and removed. He hasn't acknowledged you yet, and the tension is gripping you tightly. It's so quiet, save for your own shallow breaths.
He kneels on the bed, slowly peels the sheets back. You feel the cool night air snake along your skin, your nipples hardening in the chill. There is a beat of silence, of stillness, before he reaches out to touch you. He drags his fingers slowly along your skin, starting at your cheek, such a gentle touch. Along your neck he moves, ever so lightly, tracing promises and threats into the skin of your chest, lightly rubbing your nipples to draw out the shallow breaths in earnest. He brings his fingers together to pinch them before burying his face into your neck, leaving a love bite in sync with the jolt of pain coursing through your breast.
He keeps his hands moving, searching, trying to find every sensitive spot on your body, every inch that he can use to dangle pleasure above you in the darkness. Lower and lower still, he touches the inside of your thighs, again tracing words that only he could know, words that deem you his, an object of his affections, an object of his desires.
His hand moves closer in, his fingertips lightly brushing the skin around your vulva, taking his time, exploring within an eternity he wants to share with you. He explores your lips, using two fingers to trace the edges and allow it to flower. He comes up, looking to draw those soft moans you know he loves. He comes to your clit, fingertips already moving in slow circles. He's easing you in, like descending into a hot bath. It's as if he is committing you to his memory, that touch becoming something he will always feel a ghost of.
More intense, now. He is being so deliberate with his circles, occasionally stretching his fingers to use your own wetness as lubricant, something to keep his fingers gliding so effortlessly on your clit. He isn't slowing down, he wants you to cum. He wants to feel your hips bucking, your breathing and moaning increasing in pace, your heart pounding in your chest.
He stops.
