I went lower just to hear him moan

There are moments that begin before a word is spoken and this one started the second I walked through his door, not because of what he said but because of how quiet he became as if my presence rearranged the gravity in the room and his world bent slightly just to make space for me and I didn’t smile I didn’t flirt I simply looked at him like I already knew what he wanted and maybe that is the art I carry without even meaning to not seduction but recognition and he stood there in his suit like a confession barely zipped up and I circled him slowly not like a predator but like a memory that refuses to fade and when I reached him I didn’t touch him right away I let the air between us touch first because anticipation is the loudest language we speak without lips and his breath began to shift before I even laid a hand and that was when I knew this would be a night made not of sounds but of the spaces between them and I looked into his eyes just long enough to unbutton the silence and when I dropped to my knees I didn’t do it with submission I did it with command because power does not always stand tall sometimes it lowers itself with grace and my hands rested on his hips with the patience of a woman who already knows the ending but still chooses to read every line slowly.

He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in days and I watched his chest rise with a hunger he hadn’t named and I smiled not because I was proud but because I was present in a way most people forget to be and I moved closer not just to touch but to feel how far his control could stretch before it frayed and I whispered nothing yet he heard everything because there are moments when lips say more shut than open and I kissed along the edges of where his tension lived tracing each line of need with my breath like I was writing a poem only his body could read and he moaned not from pleasure but from release from the weight of restraint he had worn all day and I tasted not his skin but the surrender beneath it and I lingered in that quiet power because there is something sacred about knowing a man who leads others chooses to follow only you and every time I went lower I did not descend I deepened and with each inch I claimed I did not take I revealed and I felt him soften in the places only I could reach not in muscle but in mind and he touched my hair once not to guide but to say thank you and I let the rhythm between us set itself not rushed not slow just true and it was there on the floor wrapped in breath and balance that I realized he did not want to be pleased he wanted to be known.

We stayed in that stillness longer than either of us expected and when I finally looked up the way he looked down at me felt like something ancient like we had done this before in another life or another version of this one and I stood without speaking not because there was nothing left to say but because nothing else could hold what we had just shared and he sat down on the edge of the bed with his hands still trembling not from touch but from the intimacy of being seen without armor and I joined him resting my head on his shoulder while the city blinked outside the window unaware of the quiet storm that had passed between us and he didn’t ask me to stay but I knew I would for just a little while longer because some nights are not meant to be finished they are meant to echo and I whispered his name not as a reminder but as a closing note and he smiled the kind of smile that only happens when a man has been ruined softly and rebuilt beautifully by nothing more than a woman’s breath and the sound she makes when she goes lower just to hear him moan.