She shook her head almost immediately, the movement small against my shoulder. "It's not weird," she whispered. "It's just… new."

New.

That word hung between us, soft and honest.

And my brain snagged on it.

New?

I mean… look at her.

Aria was the kind of beautiful that turned heads without trying. The tight jeans, the curves that made my dick hard from the second I saw her on the stairs, that smile guys would kill for. She walked into a room and owned it without knowing she did.

Girls like that don't usually get to college without… something. A boyfriend in high school. Parties. Curious nights. Hands under shirts in dark cars. Something.

There's just no way she's never had a guy begging to let her touch him. No way she's never felt this before.

Right?

But the way she was holding me now—careful, almost reverent, fingers shaking just a little every time I throbbed against her palm—didn't feel like an act. It didn't feel like teasing or false innocence.

It felt real.

Like she genuinely didn't know exactly how to move her hand next. Like every small reaction from me was surprising her in the best way.

And that thought twisted something deep in my chest.

Because if this really was new for her—if no one else had ever gotten this far, or if they had and she still felt this wide-eyed about it—then what the hell did that say?

I let out a slow breath. "For what it's worth," I murmured, "you're making it really hard to stay calm."

A tiny, breathy laugh escaped her. "I can tell."

Her fingers flexed again—barely. Just enough pressure to feel the throb underneath. My hips twitched involuntarily, and she felt that too. Her breath caught, warm against my neck.

"Sorry," I muttered, voice strained. The denim was pulled so tight now it was bordering on actual pain—like the fabric was fighting a losing battle.

Aria lifted her head just enough to look at me, eyes wide and searching in the low light. Her hand was still there, palm curved gently around the ridge, feeling every hard throb.

"You okay?" she whispered, concern threading through the warmth in her voice.

I gave a short, rough laugh. "Yeah. Just… getting uncomfortable. It's too tight."

She bit her lip, glancing down at where her hand rested. Her fingers loosened a little, like she thought she was making it worse.

Then, softly—hesitant, but sincere—she said, "You can… get it out. If it's hurting."

The words came out almost shy, but steady. Like she'd thought about it for a second and decided it was okay to offer.

I searched her face. No teasing. No pressure. Just quiet permission.

"You sure?" I asked, low.

She nodded, a small movement, cheeks flushing deeper. "I don't want you to be in pain."

I exhaled slowly, hand moving to the button of my jeans. My fingers brushed hers as I did—unintentional, but neither of us moved away.

The button popped open with a soft sound in the quiet room.

The zipper came down just as slow—deliberate, giving her every chance to change her mind.

She didn't.

Cooler air hit heated skin as I eased myself free, careful, mindful of her hand still resting nearby. I didn't push or guide—just let it happen naturally.

And then I was out, hard and heavy against my stomach, pulsing in the open air.

Aria's breath caught—sharp, audible. Her eyes dropped, taking it in fully for the first time. No fabric in the way now. Just skin, thick and flushed, a slow bead of wetness already at the tip.

She didn't pull back. If anything, her hand hovered closer—fingers trembling slightly, like she wanted to touch but wasn't sure how.

"It's…" she started, voice barely above a whisper, "really warm."

I let out a shaky breath. "Yeah."

Her fingertips brushed the underside—feather-light, exploratory. Just once. Up the length, slow and wondering, stopping just before the head.

I groaned quietly, hips shifting toward her touch without meaning to.

She paused, looking up at me again—eyes dark, lips parted.

"Is that better?" she asked softly.

"So much better," I murmured.

And she let her fingers settle again—this time skin on skin.

Her hand wrapped around me slowly, like she was testing the weight of it. Palm first, then fingers curling one by one, loose at first, then a little firmer when she realized how easily I filled her grip. Her touch was impossibly soft—nothing like the confident strokes I was used to. It was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if she was afraid too much pressure would break something.

But that softness… God, it was torture in the best way.

I felt every inch of her skin against mine, warm and smooth, no calluses, no rush. Just pure, careful exploration.

She held me for a long moment, not moving, just feeling the heat, the hardness, the slow, steady pulse under her fingers.

"It's so warm," she whispered again, like she couldn't get over it. Her thumb rested along the underside, barely pressing, but enough that I throbbed hard in her hand.

I exhaled through my teeth. "Your hands are too soft," I said, voice rough. "Feels unreal."

She glanced up at me, cheeks flushed, a shy little smile tugging at her lips. "Is that… good?"

"Too good," I admitted.

That seemed to encourage her. Her fingers tightened—just a fraction. Not a stroke. Just a gentle squeeze, like she wanted to feel how I reacted.

I did. My hips lifted slightly off the sofa, a low sound escaping my throat.

She felt it. Her breath hitched.

"Did that hurt?" she asked quickly, loosening her grip.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Opposite. Do it again."

She bit her lip, eyes dropping back down. Then, slowly, she squeezed again—soft, experimental. Watching my face the whole time.

I groaned quietly. "Yeah… like that."

Her confidence grew in tiny increments. She slid her hand up—slowly—fingertips gliding along the length, stopping just below the head. Then back down, palm brushing the base, soft as silk.

Every movement was careful. Deliberate. Like she was memorizing me.

I couldn't take my eyes off her face—the wonder in her expression, the way her lips stayed parted, the faint flush spreading down her neck.

"You're shaking," I murmured.

"So are you," she whispered back.

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