HIS VIEW
She sat on the sofa as if she owned it, legs spread open, that little half-smile she wore when deep in thought tugging at the corners of her lips. Her fingers absently played in his hair as he sat between her thighs, the soft circles she traced on his scalp almost reverent. He closed his eyes to it, surrendering momentarily—not to her, but to the quiet thrill of knowing she had no idea how close he was to snapping.
Her touch was not passive. It was knowing, curious, testing.
He felt her fingertips slide from his hairline down along the side of his jaw, grazing his neck, then his chest. Each pass lingered just long enough to stir something deeper. When her nails traced a line over his shirt, he exhaled through his nose: slow, controlled, but already warming.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she whispered.
His hands slid up her calves, anchoring her legs to his sides. “I’m thinking about how unfair you are.”
A small, mischievous laugh vibrated from her. “Unfair?”
He looked up at her with the kind of gaze that made her breath hitch. “You know what you’re doing.”
HER VIEW
His voice always found the space just under her skin. Warm, dark, deliciously close.
She could feel the tension in his body, even as he tried to play it cool. She knew he liked control, but she also knew he gave it up in moments like this: not to lose it, but to focus it entirely on her. She liked that. The quiet dominance that only grew the more she teased it out of him.
Her fingers drifted lower, following the line of his sternum, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm. She didn’t rush. She savoured. Let him feel how thoroughly she was enjoying this game.
When she brushed her hand lower, over the firmness of his abdomen, he shivered under her touch. She smiled, slow and deliberate. “You’re really holding on, aren’t you?”
He leaned forward just slightly, his lips brushing against the inside of her thigh like a dare. “And you’re really pushing me.”
HIS VIEW
She didn’t understand what she was awakening. Or maybe she did, and that’s why she did it.
Her fingers had found the edge of his waistband, teasing, hovering just shy of real contact. It was the edge of madness. He was hard, throbbing against the constraint of his trousers, and when she finally—finally—cupped him through the fabric, he let out a ragged breath he hadn’t meant to give away.
She smirked.
That was it.
He surged upward, pinning her to the cushions in one fluid, hungry motion. Her gasp ignited something feral in him. Yet still, his hands were gentle. His control hadn’t broken; it had just shifted into something deeper. Something demanding, but entirely for her.
His lips claimed hers, slow at first, savouring the heat between them. Then deeper. He kissed her as though he wanted to memorise her, as though her pleasure was his language, and he was fluent in every syllable of it.
HER VIEW
Her back hit the sofa cushions and her body lit up with electricity.
He was on top of her, not rough, but deliberate. She felt the way his arms caged her in: not to trap her, but to protect the fire between them. His mouth was everywhere: her lips, her jaw, her neck. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair again, not to guide, but to anchor.
He moved as if he knew every place she wanted to be touched, and hadn’t forgotten a single one.
When she reached between them, sliding her hand past the waistband that had tormented them both, she felt him tense, then groan, deep and unrestrained.
HIS VIEW
She touched him like she was writing something sacred across his skin: deliberate, fluid, unfurling heat with every brush of her hand. When her fingers slipped into his trousers and wrapped around him, his control didn’t break—it deepened. It had to. He wanted to give in. But he wanted her sated first: ruined by pleasure, not just caught in it.
He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
Her lips were parted, her breath short and sweet, and the look she gave him—open, wanting, utterly in control of her own desire—told him exactly what she needed. Not to be overtaken, but to be worshipped.
He leaned down again, pressing their bodies flush. “I’ll take what you give me,” he whispered against her cheek, “but I’ll make sure you feel everything.”
HER VIEW
The way he said it—like a promise sealed in fire—sent a pulse through her so sharp she almost moaned.
He didn’t need to overpower her to dominate her. He made her feel like the centre of a storm, every gust of wind bending to please her. When his hands slipped under her shirt, he moved slowly, dragging the fabric up like it was a ritual. She lifted her arms to help him, and the way his eyes roamed her body afterwards—devouring, reverent—made her skin flush.
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back to her. “Then stop holding back.”
HIS VIEW
He smiled against her mouth.
Her challenge was permission, and that was all he needed.
He stripped his shirt off in a single motion, her hands already on him again, tracing the lines of his chest, teasing around his waistband. The heat between them had gone from a tease to a full burn, and as he pressed kisses down her throat, her collarbone, her chest, he felt her arch for him, breathless and eager.
He wanted to take his time. He wanted her trembling before either of them came. But the way she moved, the way she breathed his name into his ear—it wrecked his patience.
He reached down, peeled away her last barriers, and when his fingers found her—wet, warm, ready—he groaned, low and guttural. “You’re going to ruin me.”
HER VIEW
He said it like a prayer, and she felt it in her bones.
Her hips lifted into his touch, unable to hide the way her body responded to him. Everything about him—the way he moved, the restraint in his touch, the sheer need written in his expression—made her feel like art.
And when he leaned down again, pressing himself between her thighs, bare now, his cock thick and hard against her, she exhaled as though she’d been waiting years for this moment.
“Then let me,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around his hips.
HIS VIEW
The second he pushed into her, the world narrowed to one single point of existence: her. The heat, the pressure, the way she gasped and clung to him—it shattered something in him. Still, he didn’t rush. He moved with purpose, with aching precision, grinding against her just right, pulling back only to sink deeper again.
She gripped his shoulders, dragging nails down his back with every thrust. He groaned, sweat gathering between them, his lips never far from hers.
“You feel…” he couldn’t even finish the sentence. She stole his breath every time she moved against him.
HER VIEW
She could barely breathe.
Every stroke of him filled her to the brim, not just with pleasure, but with intention. He wasn’t fucking her to conquer—he was doing it to feel everything with her. And that made it impossible to hold back.
She kissed him, hard, biting his lower lip as her nails dug into the muscle of his back, clinging to him as the wave began to rise inside her.
She was close. And she knew he was too: his breath had gone ragged, his rhythm just a little less even, his focus laser-sharp on her.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare.”
HIS VIEW
He didn’t.
Her voice was the match to the powder keg he’d been holding back for too long. He fucked her harder then, but still slow enough to let her feel the length of him, the full weight of every thrust, until she began to tremble beneath him.
When her breath caught and her body clamped down on him, her climax hit: sharp and glorious. It shattered his last thread of control.
He let go with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he spilled into her, body tensing with the intensity of it.
HER VIEW
He collapsed into her, both of them slick with sweat, hearts pounding like thunder between them.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, still trembling, her skin lit with aftershocks. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her jaw—everywhere he could reach.
And then he just stayed there, pressed against her, breathing her in.
This wasn’t just release.
It was connection.
HIS VIEW
He didn’t move for a long time. Just lay there, cocooned in her warmth, listening to the soft cadence of her breath and the delicate beat of her heart against his chest. The hunger had been spent, the urgency quenched, but the depth? That only grew.
She stirred beneath him, fingertips trailing gently over his back, tracing invisible lines as though she was still writing stories on his skin.
“I didn’t know I could feel like that,” he murmured, lifting just enough to meet her eyes.
She smiled: small, tired, knowing. “Like what?”
He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “Like I was giving something sacred, not taking it.”
“You were,” she whispered.
HER VIEW
She could still feel the echo of him inside her. Not just the physical fullness, but the emotional one. He didn’t just make her come. He made her present: grounded in her body, in her pleasure, in the way her soul had stretched to hold him.
“I don’t usually let people in like this,” she whispered.
He kissed her, soft and lingering. “I don’t ask people to let me in,” he replied. “I just knock. You opened the door.”
She pressed a kiss to his collarbone, right where his heartbeat thrummed.
They stayed there, tangled, quiet.
Not because there was nothing more to say.
But because they had already said everything—with hands, mouths, breath, and now, with silence.
Words by Frodo 