Her body is a string pulled taut, waiting.
Fingertips like kitten’s feet pad up her spine, then spread, warm, across her upper back.
Her breath catches. Time stills as hands press into her, bone and muscle, the smallest drag of skin against skin, the merest suggestion of strength. Finally—finally—the hands move. With purpose, to please her, with the secret knowledge gained from long acquaintance.
Her body softly loosens as the hands do their work. Quietly, she vibrates in a lower register, a quaver of quick anticipation before resolving on a long, held note.
A low whisper, easier on the ear, pulses between them.