He stands close, his hand landing on your shoulder--solid, hot, pressing through your shirt. His shadowed fingers curl, steady but gentle, guiding you down with a weight that sends a shiver up your spine. Your knees hit the cool, hard floor, the jolt grounding you as your breath catches, quick and shallow, a nervous flutter in your throat. Your hands shake, hovering near his waist.
Your fingers stumble at his jeans, the metal button cold under your touch. It slips once, your pulse racing, then pops free with a sharp click that cuts the silence. The denim resists as you tug it apart, the zipper rasping down, tooth by tooth, loud as your heart pounds. You pull the jeans lower, fabric scraping his hips, and your unsteady thumbs hook into his boxer shorts. You drag them down, slow, cotton snagging on his skin--first the coarse hair at the base, prickling your knuckles, then the broad root of him, deep-toned and veined, solid as it emerges. Your chest tightens, breath hitching, as the boxers slide further, the shaft unfurling, dense and long, until they slip past the tip. It springs free, swaying in front of your face, full and firm, the swollen head smooth and glistening in the dim light.
