AJ felt the shift before he could fully process it. A ripple, a disturbance, something intangible but immediate - like the moment the wind changes direction before a storm. It wasn't sudden, not entirely, but it carried a finality that struck him deep in the chest. Verena had changed. Something in her had turned, or maybe simply emerged. A flicker in her eye, subtle yet unmistakable, had transformed into something deeper - darker. But not cruel. No. That glint, though shadowed, was laced with pleasure - pure, unapologetic pleasure. Not the kind that asked permission, and not the kind that paused to explain itself. It was raw, distilled want. And he wanted it too. When she pressed him back onto the bed, his body moved easily with the motion, surrendering to her without hesitation. There was no need for words. Her intent was clear. She didn't demand control; she simply took it, as if it had always been hers to claim. And maybe it had been. AJ didn't know, and he didn't care. All that mattered was now.
The kiss was brief but searing, the kind of kiss that doesn't try to linger but leaves its mark anyway, like a match struck against skin. A flare of heat, a warning of the fire to come. And then she was above him, the silhouette of her body casting curves and shadows against the dim light of the room. He didn't need to see the details to know what came next - he could feel it in every nerve, every taut muscle waiting in anticipation. Then he saw her sex descending toward his face - bold, slick, irresistible. This wasn't an invitation. It was a claim. This was what he had longed for, in quiet thoughts he barely allowed himself to admit. Not just to give himself to her, but to see her want something enough to take it. There was no performance here, no contrived seduction. Just her, in control, not for dominance or cruelty, but to show him that she too could lead. That she could be the one to push, to take, to silence the world by simply being what she was.
"This is what I wanted," he thought, and the truth of it washed through him with unrelenting clarity. Not a fantasy made real, but something better - more primal, more electric. A woman moving with her own rhythm, her own pace. Not for his approval. Not even for his reaction. Just because it was hers to do. His tongue was already out, seeking her, needing her. When her heat met his mouth, it was all-encompassing. Her scent, her taste, her weight - the pressure of her hips grinding against his face - each sensation folding over the next. She rode him with a rhythm that was hers alone, one he could only follow as best he could. He tried to move his tongue with purpose, to draw patterns against her, but it wasn't easy under the force of her need. She didn't slow for him, didn't adjust. She used him, and he gave himself up willingly.
There was no neat choreography to it, no perfect technique. Just urgency. Just her hips, relentless and raw, pressing into his mouth as if trying to brand him. And he welcomed it. His jaw ached, his arms trembled where they lay beside him, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't. This was her moment, her tempo, and he was there for it. Not to guide her. Not to coax a response. But to bear witness to her pleasure, to give her everything he could, even if it meant surrendering completely. He wasn't in control of her climax. That was clear. She'd come when she was ready - and only then. He might help her get there, might add to the pressure rising inside her, but the moment itself would belong solely to her. And that, somehow, was what made it feel holy. Sacred, even. He had never felt so necessary and so powerless at once. Never so grounded in the real - flesh, sweat, salt - and yet drifting somewhere higher, on a current that pulled him deeper into her with every roll of her hips. It wasn't about him. That was the part that thrilled him the most.
"This is what I wanted," he told himself again, the words stretching long in his mind like a whispered prayer. This. Not just the act, but the truth behind it. Her confidence. Her need. The way she held nothing back. He couldn't see her eyes now, only her thighs bracketing his face, slick and trembling with every thrust. But he knew the look she wore. That same flicker he saw earlier, now fanned into full flame. That dark, delighted hunger that said she wasn't afraid of taking. That she could devour and still be divine. And beneath her, AJ remained - mouth open, tongue devoted, body given. Not because he had to. But because she did.
And that made all the difference.
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