The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, bathing Kyle’s room in a warm, amber

light. It was quiet—just the sound of birds outside, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the gentle
hum of life beyond those walls. Inside, everything felt still. Peaceful. Yours.

You were both seated in the chairs by the window, your knees lightly brushing every so often.
Kyle had her legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, wearing one of her
usual at-home shirts—soft, a little oversized, without a bra underneath. It hung off one shoulder
just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, her hair still tousled from sleep.

You were in your polo, only two buttons done near the collar, nothing underneath but briefs. It
was too early for anything else. Too easy to just exist like this, comfortably close.

She watched you speak—something about a funny dream you had, or maybe the coffee you
forgot to finish—and her lips curled into a small smile. Her gaze lingered a little longer than
before, flickering down your chest, then back to your eyes.

“You look warm,” she said softly.

You shrugged. “A little.”

She leaned forward, propping her chin on her knees. “You always look like that when you’re
relaxed. Like you could just… melt into wherever you’re sitting.”

You chuckled, a low sound. “Guess I feel that way around you.”

Her eyes met yours again. She didn’t say anything right away, but something in her expression
shifted—curious, intent. Then slowly, deliberately, she stood, stepping in between your legs, her
hands finding your shoulders as she lowered herself into your lap.

You blinked once. “Kyle—”

“Just wanna be close,” she said, quiet and certain.

Her thighs cradled your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your clothes. Her chest pressed
gently to yours, the soft curve of her body molding naturally against you. You felt every breath
she took—slow, measured—as her arms wrapped around your neck. And even though neither of
you moved much, your whole world tilted slightly just from the way she looked at you.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

You nodded, voice stuck somewhere in your throat. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

She smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss just beneath your ear.

And just like that, the morning changed.

Kyle didn’t rush. She never did—not when it came to moments like this. She moved with the
quiet certainty of someone who knew the pace of her own heart, and yours too. Still straddling
you, her knees rested comfortably on either side of your hips, anchoring her in place as her
fingertips brushed slowly along the back of your neck, coaxing your breath to hitch in response.

She leaned in, forehead resting against yours, her soft hair falling around both of you like a
curtain. Her thighs squeezed gently as she adjusted her weight, and you felt the warmth of her
core pressed through the fabric of her shorts, settling closer to your lap. It wasn’t rushed. It was
intentional. And it made your hands, resting lightly at her waist, tremble with anticipation.

Her lips met yours again—slow, open, exploring—her breath steady even as yours faltered. Her
kiss was sure, tender yet firm, the kind that drew you deeper into her orbit. You didn’t need
words. Her movements said everything.

And when she finally pulled back, her eyes lingered on you with that quiet kind of heat, the one
she reserved only for these private hours. Her right hand glided from your shoulder down to the
exposed part of your chest, her palm brushing over the line where your shirt opened. She paused
there, right above your sternum, feeling the steady thump of your heartbeat.

“I like seeing you like this,” she murmured.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “Like what?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile as she leaned into your ear. “Unraveled.”

That single word undid something in you.

Her hands moved again—sliding down your chest slowly, fingertips grazing over your skin, then
following the slight dip between your ribs. She explored you deliberately, her touch neither
teasing nor shy. She was reading you. Learning you again. And as she reached your abdomen,
her fingers paused at your waistline, playing with the fabric resting above your briefs.

You let out a shaky breath as your hands rose to her sides, tracing the line of her waist, then
slowly upward. She didn't flinch. In fact, she leaned into you, placing her hands over yours to
guide you further.

Higher.

Your palms brushed the undersides of her breasts first, clothed only by the soft material of her
shirt. There was no bra—there hadn’t been all morning. You felt her warmth, the natural curve of
her chest rising with each breath. She brought your hands over them, gently but surely.

“Touch me,” she said, voice low, breath warm against your jaw. Not a command, not a request—
an offering.
Your hands curved around her breasts, fingers brushing over her nipples through the fabric—
small, sensitive, and firming under your touch. Her breath caught, and she pressed closer, her
body arching into your hands. You could feel the tension in her back as she moved, her chest
fitting perfectly against your palms.

She kissed you again—deeper now, messier, her hands resting on your shoulders for balance.
She rocked her hips against you just slightly, enough to feel the growing tension between you,
but still holding back. Still savoring.

She pulled back just enough to look at you—her eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a subtle flush
coloring her cheeks.

And then she guided your right hand lower.

Down past her waist. Past her stomach.

She paused only when your palm rested over the heat between her legs—over the fabric of her
shorts, still a barrier, but barely. She looked at you then, searching for your breath, your reaction.
Her hand remained over yours, grounding you there. Not forcing—just showing you where she
wanted to be touched.

Her body spoke what words didn’t: I want you to know all of me.

And with her soft sighs, her gentle weight straddling you, the warmth of her breast under your
left hand and the heat of her core under your right, you began to understand—every moment
with Kyle was her way of letting you in, piece by piece.

Your hands rested against her sides as she straddled you, your breathing already in sync. She was
warm in your lap, her presence grounding and electric all at once. With her thighs snug against
yours and your polo hanging open around your chest, you could feel the air shift—charged,
heavier.

She leaned in, brushing her nose against your jaw, then kissed the space just beneath it. Her lips
moved slowly to your neck, planting delicate, reverent kisses that made your fingers curl
instinctively at her waist.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, voice low, more a hum than words.

Your reply was a quiet sigh as your hands began to explore—fingertips gliding up her sides,
brushing over the soft fabric of her shirt. She shifted slightly, arching her back just enough to
bring her chest forward, and her hands moved to yours, gently guiding them higher. You felt the
edge of her shirt rise with the motion, the curve of her bare skin meeting your palms.

And then she lifted her arms slowly.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her eyes held yours as she pulled the loose shirt up
and over her head in one clean motion, letting it fall softly behind her on the bed. The morning
light caught the soft lines of her bare chest—her breasts rising and falling with each steady
breath. Her nipples peaked slightly from the cool air, and the contrast of her warmth in your
hands made you press your thumbs gently against her.

Her skin was flawless, soft, with just enough give under your touch to make you reverent. You
cupped her fully, letting your thumbs brush delicately over each nipple, drawing a quiet sound
from her. Her back arched again, this time less subtle, inviting more of your attention.

“You always know how to touch me,” she whispered, as if surprised by it—and yet completely
assured.

You swallowed, breath catching as she leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried, her chest
pressing into yours. Every part of her felt like a gift—one she was willingly giving, guiding you
with nothing but trust and gentle hands.

She took your wrists next, slowly drawing them down her sides, her breath catching as your
touch trailed along her waist, over the soft skin of her stomach. When your hands reached the
hem of her sleep shorts, she paused.

Her eyes found yours again, asking without words.

And you answered with a nod, silent but sure.

She smiled softly and placed your hand over the thin fabric between her thighs, guiding your
palm there with her own.

Her voice was only a whisper. “Feel how much I want you.”

Her words echoed in the quiet room, and the weight of them—soft but sure—made your heart
race. Her hand still rested over yours, her touch both guiding and grounding, and you could feel
it: the warmth, the softness, the way her body responded to your presence with complete
openness.

She didn’t rush you. She never did. Instead, she leaned her forehead to yours, her breathing
shallow but steady, like she was letting you in deeper with every second. You let your fingers
move carefully beneath hers, exploring through the delicate fabric, feeling the subtle shift of her
hips as she welcomed your touch.

Her breath hitched, but she stayed close. “Just like that,” she whispered, her voice more like a
breath than a sentence. “I want to feel everything—with you.”

You cradled her frame again, one hand at her waist, the other still beneath her guidance, as she
pressed her lips gently to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower, trailing soft kisses down your
neck while her body began to move again—slow, rhythmic, like you were dancing in silence.
Her legs tightened ever so slightly around your hips, and the sway of her body became more
pronounced, more intentional. You met her movements with a steady hold, your touch never
rushed, never greedy. It wasn’t about taking; it was about feeling, about listening to every shiver,
every breathless pause that told you just how much this meant to her.

And she was beautiful—fully, breathtakingly beautiful in how she gave herself to the moment.
Her hands explored you too now, slipping inside the open folds of your polo, feeling the rise and
fall of your chest, tracing the warmth of your skin. She nuzzled into your neck, her voice small
but steady.

“I feel so safe with you,” she said, and you could feel the truth of it in how she held you—tight,
trusting, needing.

You kissed her again—soft, long, slow—and your arms wrapped around her as she rested her
forehead against yours. Your hands stayed where she’d placed them, still exploring, still holding
her, as her body continued to respond, every movement melting deeper into yours.

This wasn’t about urgency. It was about fullness.

About being seen.

Being held.

Being loved.