She had known he would come. The way he'd looked at her earlier, that slow, knowing smile, had said it plainly: Go to sleep, little one. I'll come find you. I'll unwrap every secret you're keeping under that thin cotton.
Now she lay in the dark, heart drumming against her ribs, and let her thighs fall open just a fraction, an unspoken invitation. She turned slightly, offering the hidden cleft beneath the damp silk of her panties.
But the hand was patient, almost cruelly patient. It ignored the heat pulsing between her legs and slid upward instead, tracing the soft inward slope of her thigh until the forefinger found her navel (small, delicate, trembling). It circled once, twice, then dipped inside, measuring the tiny hollow as though testing how much of her he could claim. A gentle push, and her back arched without permission.
His left hand kept stroking the tender skin of her inner thigh, a slow, maddening rhythm that made her breath stutter. The right hand accepted the navel's invitation and traveled higher, over the quivering plane of her stomach, until warm fingertips brushed the underside of her breast. She was already aching, nipples drawn so tight they hurt.
She bit her lip to stay quiet. She was the taker tonight; she would wait.
Another hand joined the first (confident, unhurried), slipping beneath the hem of her soft top. With one smooth motion it pushed the fabric up to her collarbones. Cool air kissed her bare skin; she hadn't worn a bra, had left herself deliberately defenseless, no extra layers between her and whatever he intended.
A gust of warm breath grazed the curve of her neck. The shadow in the darkness leaned closer. Hot lips settled just below her ear, open, deliberate, tasting the frantic beat of her pulse.