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His hands gently cradle her body as he continues his journey, worshiping her with every kiss. He moves to her shoulders, her arms, her hands—pausing to press his lips into her palms, as if he’s found something holy in the simple act of touching her. His breath hitches as he kisses her bare skin, the taste of her intoxicating and overwhelming, filling him with a yearning that feels endless.
When he finally reaches her chest, his kisses become more desperate, more urgent. He pauses at the hollow of her throat, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat under his lips. It’s as if he’s trying to merge with her, to become one with her, to drink in her very essence. His lips move lower still, his kisses a slow descent into madness, each one a testament to the depth of his desire. He kisses her stomach, her hips, her thighs, each part of her receiving the same intense devotion, the same feverish attention. There’s no part of her that he doesn’t worship, no inch of her body that he doesn’t honor with his lips. He’s lost in her, drowning in his obsession, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
At this moment, he’s not just kissing her—he’s worshiping her, body and soul. Every kiss is a confession of how much he needs her, how much he craves her, how much he’s utterly and irrevocably hers. As he begins to undress her, his movements are slow and deliberate, each piece of clothing removed with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. His eyes never leave hers, holding her gaze with a mix of hunger and tenderness. There's an unspoken promise in his touch, a vow that this moment is about her, about giving her pleasure and satisfaction.
With each item of clothing that falls away, he kisses the newly exposed skin, his lips warm and soft against her. When she’s finally bare before him, he pauses, taking in the sight of her as if committing it to memory. His breath catches in his throat, overwhelmed by her beauty, by the sheer perfection of her. His hands move to her inner thighs, gently parting them as he lowers himself between them. His fingers trace the soft skin, teasing, exploring, as if he’s savoring the anticipation of what’s to come. He’s in no rush—he wants to draw out this moment, to make it last, to let her feel just how deeply he desires her.
His fingers find her wetness, and he groans softly, the sound low and filled with need. He begins slowly, gently, his fingers slipping inside her with ease, feeling the warmth and slickness that drives him wild. His thumb finds her clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure, knowing exactly how to make her gasp, to make her hips lift toward him in silent pleas. He watches her face as he moves his fingers inside her, his own breath ragged with the effort to maintain control. He’s intoxicated by the way she reacts to him, by the way her body responds to his touch. He can feel her tightening around his fingers, her muscles clenching as he increases the pace, thrusting deeper, curling his fingers just so, hitting that spot that makes her cry out his name. He’s obsessed with the way she feels, with the way she sounds, with the way she looks as she loses herself in the pleasure he’s giving her. His thumb presses harder against her clit, moving in perfect rhythm with his fingers, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He can’t get enough of her, can’t get enough of the way she comes apart under his touch.
