His tender touch
is not in a hurry.
It lingers —
like moonlight on bare skin,
like breath just before a kiss.

He doesn’t ask permission
with words,
but with silence,
with closeness,
with the space he leaves
for me to lean in.

His fingers trace
the edge of my collarbone
as if it’s a map
to something he’s waited to find.
Slow, deliberate —
a worship in motion.

There’s something holy
in how he touches me,
like he’s unwrapping
something fragile,
something sacred —
something he’s been craving
but refusing to rush.

When he presses into me,
it’s not just skin —
it’s trust.
It’s ache.
It’s the promise of undoing
without being undone.

He knows the places
where want lives quietly,
and he visits them
with reverence.
With fire
that flickers,
then climbs.

And in his touch,
I melt —
not because I’m weak,
but because I’m safe.
Because here,
in his hands,
I don’t have to guard
the parts of me
that tremble.