Dear Diary,
He didn’t speak all evening. Not a word after sundown. Not because I told him not to—but because he knows better than to break the quiet when the mood shifts like this.
I could feel the tension in him all day. He moved slower, more deliberately, like every gesture was a question I hadn’t answered yet. And that’s exactly what I wanted.
When I finally called him to the bedroom, he came quickly. Shirtless, already barefoot, hair still damp from the shower. Ready.
I told him to stand at the foot of the bed. I stayed seated—legs crossed, silk robe open just enough to suggest, not offer. I watched him. Took my time with it. Let him feel how long I could look at him without touching.
Then, softly: “Get on the bed.”
He did. I guided him with one hand at the center of his chest, pressing him back until he was beneath me. Flat on his back. Hands at his sides. Barely breathing.
I straddled him slowly, not to tease, but to own the moment. Every inch of him was hard, trembling with restraint. He didn’t reach for me. He never does unless told.
I let my fingers drift down his ribs, then lower. I grazed him, once, and felt the jolt run through his whole body.
“You want to finish tonight?” I asked.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”
“Then you’ll stay still.”
He nodded, already shaking.
I rode him the way I like. Focused. Grounded. Every movement deliberate. No rush, no mess. Just the slow, rising heat of knowing I could stop at any second—and he’d still thank me.
And when I felt him close, I whispered, “You may.”
His body obeyed like it belonged to me. Because it does.