If you ever find yourself standing at my door,
ShareI don’t walk into a room with a checklist. No laminated menu of moves, no rehearsed script....... The only practice I bring is knowing how to listen.
Not just to the words, but to the way her breath catches when my fingers brush the small of her back. To the tiny shift of her hips when I linger just left of where she thinks she wants me. To the almost-inaudible sigh that says “lower… but not too fast, not just yet.”
Last night she arrived twenty minutes early, clutching her phone like a life raft, heels clicking apologies across the marble. “I’m so sorry, traffic was—”
I just smiled, took her coat, and said, “You’re exactly on time. Your body got here first.”
She laughed—the surprised kind, the one that sneaks out before you remember you’re supposed to be sophisticated. That laugh told me more than a personal profile bio ever could.
We talked for maybe seven minutes. Long enough for her shoulders to drop three inches. Then I asked the only question that matters:
“What part of you hasn’t been touched the way it’s been begging to be touched?”
Her eyes widened, then softened. She didn’t answer with words. She answered by tilting her head, exposing that tender stripe of skin just under her ear. Invitation accepted.
I’m not fast. Fast is for men who are afraid they’ll run out of time.
I’m deliberate.
Teasingly, achingly deliberate.
A fingertip tracing the shadow under her collarbone becomes a promise. A slow exhale against her throat becomes a secret we’re keeping from the rest of the world. When I finally kiss the place her pulse is hammering, she makes this small, involuntary sound—like she just remembered she’s allowed to feel this much.
And when she whispers “please,” it isn’t desperate.
It’s grateful.
Afterward, she curled into me like I was the big spoon the universe thoughtfully provided her. I stroked her hair and murmured nonsense about how the moon looks better when it’s embarrassed to be caught staring. She giggled into my chest.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“Only until you need me to be serious,” I replied.
She refused to shower before leaving and stopped short before describing why, ....... she didn't have to finish for I know exactly why. She left with messy hair, kiss-swollen lips, and a smile that remembered what mischief feels like.
I stayed behind with the smell on the once crisp, fresh sheets of raw human passion, her perfume and wishful, greedy thoughts that she had never left.
Those memorable nights are more than an exchange of self indulgences, they're the joy of knowing how you have supported another, if only briefly.
Those nights are measured in how safe she felt being greedy.
How freely she let herself be taken.
How deeply she let herself be seen.
So if you ever find yourself standing at my door, keys in hand, heart doing that nervous little tap-dance—
Just knock.
I’m already listening.
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