She wasn't wrong. My whole body felt wired, every nerve lit up from how gentle she was being.

Her thumb brushed over the tip then—accidental at first, just the edge of it. But when she felt the wetness there, she paused.

"Oh…" she breathed, circling it slowly, spreading the bead with the pad of her thumb. Light. Curious.

I hissed in a breath. "Fuck—Aria…"

She froze. "Too much?"

"No," I said quickly. "Just… sensitive there."

She nodded, eyes wide. Then did it again—slower this time. Deliberate. Watching how my abs tensed, how my hand gripped the sofa cushion.

"I didn't know it would be this… slippery," she said softly, almost to herself.

I let out a shaky laugh. "Only because you're doing this to me."

Her fingers wrapped around me again, fuller this time. She started a slow, tentative stroke—up and down, loose grip, soft palm gliding over heated skin.

Not fast. Not skilled.

But perfect.

Because it was her.

Because every little pause, every soft squeeze, every time she glanced up to check my face—it all said the same thing.

She wanted to get this right.

For me.

For herself.

"You feel so hard," she whispered, voice trembling just a little. "Like… velvet over steel."

I groaned again, deeper this time. "Keep talking like that and I won't last long."

She smiled—small, shy, pleased with herself.

Her rhythm stayed slow. Unhurried. Like she had all the time in the world to learn this.

Up… pause at the head, thumb brushing lightly.

Down… fingers tightening just slightly at the base.

Up again.

Each stroke sent heat rolling through me, building slow and heavy.

I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, then let my hand rest on her thigh—warm, grounding.

"You're driving me crazy," I said low.

"Good crazy?" she asked, voice soft, hopeful.

"The best kind."

I let it go on for a few more strokes, just feeling her softness, her curiosity, the way she was learning me with every gentle pass.

Then I moved my hand from her thigh, sliding it slowly up her arm until my fingers covered hers—loose, not taking over, just resting there.

"Hey," I whispered, voice low and rough. "Can I show you something?"

She nodded immediately, eyes flicking up to mine, dark and trusting. Her rhythm slowed, waiting.

I curled my fingers over hers, guiding her grip just a little tighter—not hard, just enough to add pressure. Then I moved our hands together: a slow, firm stroke from base to tip, twisting gently at the top so her palm glided over the sensitive head.

She followed the motion perfectly, breath catching as she felt the difference.

"Like that," I murmured. "A little tighter… feels incredible."

Her lips parted on a soft exhale. "Okay…"

We did it again—together. Slow pull up, twist, slide down. My thumb nudged hers, showing her how to press lightly along the underside on the way back up.

She shivered—full body—and I felt her thighs press together beside mine.

"You feel that?" I asked quietly, guiding us into another stroke. "How it throbs when you do it right?"

"Yeah," she breathed, voice trembling. Her free hand gripped my shirt, knuckles brushing my chest. "I feel it."

I kept our hands moving—unhurried, steady—letting her take more of the control each time. After a few strokes, I loosened my fingers, letting her lead while my hand stayed over hers, encouraging.

She picked it up fast. Grip firmer now, twist at the top smoother, thumb sweeping over the tip each time, spreading the wetness down the length.

Every pass made her breathing quicker, shallower.

I slid my free hand to her waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of her shirt—barely an inch, just enough to touch warm skin. She didn't flinch. If anything, she leaned into it.

"You're getting me so worked up," I said against her temple. "And you're shaking again."

She let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I can't help it. It's… intense. Feeling you like this."

My thumb traced slow circles on the skin of her lower back, just above the waistband of her jeans. Light. Soothing. But deliberate.

Her hips shifted—small, involuntary—pressing closer to my side.

"Tell me if you want me to stop touching you," I whispered.

"Don't," she said quickly, almost desperate. "Please don't."

I traced higher under her shirt—slow inches, fingertips grazing the soft skin along her spine. Every time I moved up, she arched just slightly into my touch.

"You're so warm here," I murmured, thumb brushing the edge of her bra strap.

She whimpered—quiet, surprised at herself—and her hand tightened around me on the next stroke.

"Good girl," I breathed, without thinking.

Her whole body flushed hot against me. I felt it.

She tucked her face into my neck, lips brushing my skin accidentally—or not—as she kept moving her hand.

Slow.

Firm.

Perfect.

And getting faster now, like the arousal building in me was echoing back into her.

Like showing her how to touch me was teaching her how much she liked being touched too.

We stayed like that—her hand on me, my hand on her back, guiding, encouraging, exploring.

Breathing the same air.

Getting lost in the same heat.

Neither of us in a hurry to stop.

But after a few more minutes of her soft, steady strokes—twisting at the top, squeezing gently at the base—the pressure built in a way that wasn't releasing. It was good, damn good, but it wasn't enough. The ache deepened, like my body was wound too tight, begging for more friction, more heat, something to push me over.

I shifted my hips slightly, trying to chase it without making it obvious, but she felt it. Her hand slowed, fingers loosening just a bit.

"You okay?" she whispered against my neck, voice laced with concern.

I let out a rough breath, hand stilling on her back. "Yeah. It's just… building up. Feels amazing, but I'm not… there yet."

She pulled back enough to look at me, eyes wide and searching, cheeks still pink. Her hand stayed wrapped around me, warm and still. "Did I do something wrong?"

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