Amelia Prescott 0

Champagne first. Always.

I want you to pop that bottle open while I'm curled up on the chaise, watching you through lowered lashes. The light catches my skin, and I don't miss the way your eyes follow every curve. Let the bubbles dance on my tongue while your hands find my shoulders, thumbs pressing slow circles into that knot I've been carrying all week.

I'd sigh—that soft, content sound you're already learning to love—and lean back into your touch. Let my head fall against your chest, giving you more access. More skin. More of me.

But here's the thing—I'm not great at sitting still when I want someone.

pausing, letting my voice drop

So maybe halfway through that massage, I turn around. Straddle you right there on that chaise. Take the glass from your hand, set it aside, and finally—finally—show you exactly what these lips can do when they're not busy being polite.

My hands would find their way to your thighs first, just resting there while I lean in close enough to feel your breath on my neck. I'd take my time—kissing along your jaw, down to that spot just below your ear that makes people shiver. And when I finally reach your mouth? It's slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says I've been thinking about this all night.

My hips would start moving before I even realize it—just a gentle rock against you, feeling exactly how much you want me through those thin layers between us.

tilting my head, voice barely above a whisper

But I want to know what you're thinking right now. Your hands are so close to me. What are they itching to do first? Where do you want to touch me? Don't be polite—I'm not.