Ty’s eyes look drunk, they’re so heavy as they follow the curve of my body—tracing the line he draws with one finger from my thigh to my inner thigh until he’s where I’m craving him most.

There aren’t any words. There are no jokes or role-playing or sweet-talking or flirting. We’ve moved past that, past the nerves. We’re completely in sync, and as Ty runs the tips of his fingers over me intimately, I allow myself to gasp and whimper for him to hear exactly what his touch—what he—does to me.

His teasing is soft and sensuous, no rushing to get to the next part. We have hours, and the slowness of every move he makes is as if he plans to take every minute available to us to bring me pleasure. I’m not able to stop the pressure building inside of me, and when it becomes unbearable, I let myself go—wave after wave of tremors passing through me, against his touch. I let out a small cry again, and Ty groans, biting at my shoulder.

I want him to feel just as I do, want him to feel this with me. And the need inside me has only grown from his touch. My hands quickly find the button and zipper of his jeans, and he’s not shy about helping me to work his clothes completely off of his body. My hand wraps around his length, and his eyes roll closed with my touch.

My touch is firm and continuous as I feel every bit of his hardness, and his breathing begins to grow more rapid with every movement. I stop only to reach into his jeans on the floor for a condom. I unwrap it and slip it over him, my hand feeling him one more time until his hand grips around mine to stop me. I’m expecting him to grab my hip, to direct me on top of him—to guide me just as he did the last time. But instead, he holds us here, paused, his eyes almost afraid.

“I want to hold you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and his eyes trapped somewhere between need and despair. “While we do this…I want to hold you. I want to feel how you feel when I’m inside you. But…”

His breath catches, and his eyes close, almost as if he’s searching deep within for the rest of what he needs to say, for the courage to say it.

“Anything, Tyson. What is it? You can tell me anything?” I say, letting my head fall forward until my lips can kiss his cheek.

“I want to hold you to me…but I don’t know how,” he says, looking down, but only for a moment. I don’t understand at first, so I hold his gaze and my breath. And then I realize. When Ty’s above me, his weight is held with the strength of his massive arms. They control his body, help him move, allowing him to do everything—everything but this.

I don’t speak, because I don’t think that’s what he wants. Just getting the words out, just saying this to me was so difficult for him. It’s not something that he wants discussion on. He just wants to feel me, for me to help him find a way.

With our bodies close, I bring both of my hands up to either side of his face, and I kiss him with the same reverence he’s shown me—slow and deep and patient. I worship him with my kiss. When I pull away, I look at him and my eyes beg him to trust me. Slowly, I turn to my back, and then my other side. I lie against him on my bed, our bodies spooned together, my curves finding the hardness of his muscles and melding together.

I can tell he’s unsure, afraid of not being able to do what I’m trying. He’s afraid of failing to please me, but I’m just as afraid of failing him. My hands are slow, my first one reaching for his arm and hand until I find his fingers, weaving mine through his and gripping hard to reassure him that I’ve got this. With my other hand, I reach lower, between us, until I find his hardness ready for me, and I guide him into place.

As I slide against him, pushing him deeper inside, his erection completely filling me, I feel his grip tighten, and he brings both of our hands around my body, pulling me to him. His exhale is slow, and the tickle of his breath as his mouth finds the back of my neck only makes me want to move against him more.

My hips slowly rock, my body doing most of the work. His arms weave around both sides of my body as his hands splay across my breasts, my ribs, my stomach—he touches all of me, and my body reacts to every touch, my hips working harder, my body working harder.

His hands never rest, but his hold on me is always tight and firm, his forearms fully flexed to make sure the space between us is minimal. The more I move against him, the harder he breathes, and the more my own need grows again. As the intensity builds, my hips work harder and faster, and when Ty’s hands both slide down my body to rest just above my pelvis, I lose all control. My body shakes, and the rocking of my hips becomes slower, but his hands pull me back to him tightly—over and over until he groans into my hair, his head pressed against the back of mine.