Page 81 of Unclench Me Softly

Even though I can’t see him, I want to, need to, because the not-seeing is worse. It makes everything sharper, more unbearable, like trying to memorize a fever dream in the dark.

I want to feel him, not just his hands, not just the way he touches me like a secret ritual, but all of it. All of him. The weight, the intention, the way he looks at me like I’m already a yes he hasn’t finished asking for.

I want this.

His fingers trail down the center of my chest, slow as prophecy, then curve across my ribs and hips like he’s tracing the perimeter of something he plans to invade.

And lower.

And lower.

And gods, he touches me like he’s studied for this. Like he’s been building a map of my body in his mind and now he’s following the route with absolute certainty, like the ache between my legs was something he’s known how to read since birth.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

Because every second of not touching is its own kind of torture. Every second he waits is proof of how much he knows I’ll beg.

And I will. I already am.

“Say it,” he whispers, fingers just hovering where I need him most.

“Please,” I gasp.

“Louder.”

“Please, Jonah.”

His mouth brushes my ear again. “That’s better.”

And then he gives.

His fingers slide between my thighs and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fumble.

Just presses deep, slow, perfect, like he already knows the shape of me. Like he’s been dreaming of this moment and is finally, finally, allowed to touch what he’s been starving for.

I gasp sharply, helplessly.

He shushes me. Kisses the shell of my ear. “You don’t need to think,” he murmurs. His voice is so steady. “You don’t need to lead. Just feel.”

Which is bullshit, because I am feeling everything, his breath, his fingers, my own heartbeat crashing like a ritual drum under my ribs, and it’s too much. Not enough. Perfect.

His other hand cups my jaw, tilts me up, and the fingers between my thighs start to move with rhythm, slow at first, steady and circling, like he’s praying in a language made of pressure.

I arch, blind and wrecked, grabbing the sheets like they’ll hold me together.

“I like you like this,” he says, and it’s not cocky, it’s intimate. “Unmasked. Honest. Wet.”

I moan. I don’t mean to. It just rips out of me like a confession.

“I like that,” he says, voice low and rough. “That sound. That’s real. Don’t hide from me, Bliss.”

And it’s unfair, so unfair, how he makes it sound like worship and interrogation at the same time.

He slides two fingers inside me, deliberate and deep, curling in a way that makes my whole body clamp around him like he’s unlocking something sacred.

He groans low under his breath. “Tight,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Then his thumb moves again. His mouth grazes my throat. His fingers, those decisive hands, fuck me with an ache that makes my eyes roll behind the blindfold.

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