Your hands hover, teasing, just above my skin,
fingertips tracing invisible lines along my collarbone,
down, down, where my breath catches,
where my nipples ache, peaked and desperate,
hunger tightening beneath your slow, patient touch.

I shift, arching, offering myself,
but you only smile,
the kind of cruel, knowing smirk that makes my thighs clench,
makes me throb, makes me plead
before you’ve even truly begun.

A single finger drags across the swell of my breast,
circling, spiraling inward,
until it hovers just beside my nipple,
so close it burns, so close it hurts,
but not touching, not yet.

My skin is hot beneath you,
my breath ragged, every nerve strung tight, waiting.

Then—
contact.

A whisper of a touch, the faintest graze of your fingertip
against the aching bud,
and I exhale hard, my body tightening,
muscles tensing, drawn taut like a bowstring.

You flick it once, light, teasing,
then roll it between your fingers,
slow, firm, just enough pressure to make me bite my lip,
to make my hips shift,
a silent plea, a wordless surrender.

But you’re not finished with teasing me yet.

Your mouth follows, warm breath ghosting over my skin,
your lips brushing the other nipple in featherlight passes,
barely there, just enough to make it throb,
just enough to make me ache.

Heat. Wetness. The slow, sinful pull of your lips.

I moan—helpless, head tilting back,
as your tongue flicks, circles,
dragging over the sensitive peak before you suck.
Hard. Deep.

It sends a bolt of pleasure straight between my thighs,
a sharp, searing heat that makes me gasp,
makes my fingers dig into your shoulders,
makes my body beg without words.

You hum against me, low and satisfied,
the vibration rippling through my nipple,
sending electric shocks down my spine.

You suckle, pull, bite,
just enough to hurt, just enough to drive me insane.

And when you switch to the other,
when you lavish it with the same torment,
the same slow, devouring worship,
I am shaking, thighs pressing together,
a helpless mess beneath your mouth.

But you don’t stop.
You don’t let me go.

Your tongue swirls, circles, flicks,
one nipple glistening, swollen from your mouth
while your fingers twist, tease, pinch the other,
a contrast of hot and rough, wet and sharp.

I gasp, writhe, the pleasure climbing, climbing,
and then you pull me deeper, pull me apart.

Your lips seal around me again,
your tongue lashing in slow, deliberate strokes,
your fingers relentless, unyielding,
rubbing, rolling, twisting,
a perfect rhythm, a perfect storm.

And it’s too much.

The pleasure is unbearable,
the sensation unbearable,
every pull of your mouth dragging me closer, closer,
until my whole body clenches, bows,
tension snapping like a tidal wave.

The first wave crashed in thunder.

A cry rips from my lips, raw and broken,
as the first wave shudders through me, deep and sharp,
rippling, pulsing, bursting.

Outside, the ocean is roaring, wild and reckless,
waves crashing against the shore,
a mirror of the storm inside me,
of the pleasure breaking me, drowning me.

The thunder rolls—deep, growling, primal,
as your fingers tighten, pinching my swollen peaks,
twisting, sending fire through my veins.

A bolt of white-hot lightning tears through my body,
sharp and electric, flashing from nipple to core,
arching my back, curling my toes,
striking deep, deep down to my velvet temple,
where love floods thick and wanting,
slick, molten, trembling for you.

Another wave crashes,
louder, stronger, relentless,
as your mouth claims me again, sucking, biting,
storm and sea, heat and hunger,
until I am nothing but pulse, nothing but raw, aching need.

I tremble, gasping, every inch of me alive, tingling, ruined.
And still—your mouth lingers, your hands soothe,
worshipping, cherishing, drawing out the aftershocks
until I am nothing but breath, nothing but bliss,
nothing but yours.

The waves will come again.
And so will I.