In the low, fading light, he reaches out to her, hands making contact with soft warm skin, fingers trailing so delicately her body unconsciously reaches out for more of his touch. Blazing blue eyes sweep and record every detail, every curve, every freckle and dimple and arc of her slight form.
He lays her out exploring her womanly terrain as if new found territory. Hand hovering over her increasingly hot expanse, it makes contact along her neck, collarbone and the path between her breasts as he holds her down with a gentle strength.
Mouth, lips, tongue on the surface now, he breathes in her scent, sweet yet rich he whispers, moving down to her moist, enveloping flower as he handles her with such sensual care she begins to shake at the foreignness of the sensation.
Her longing rises up to meet him, giving her over, surrendering her agency, as she marvels at his ability to read, to perceive, to know exactly what she needs and when, to recognise the fluid nature of her desire and crave its multiplicity.
Some might think an intuitive touch is a gift, something only a few possess. I prefer to think a lover's intuition is only an extension of an empathetic nature — the true desire to listen and really sense what works best, what pleases most.
A sixth sense? Perhaps. Or maybe it's just the pure intense need to please her beyond anything she's ever experienced before.
— PB
Or it just might be an amalgam of all of the above.
At any rate, it is a true gift for those of us lucky enough to have been a recipient.