His Whispers on My Skin

It started with the way you laughed at Rafi's terrible jokes in class—genuine, unforced, like nothing from middle school ever lingered in the air between you. But it did, even if Rafi kept that ghost quiet. In the years since your reunion in college, something gentle grew between you. It wasn't just comfort—it was understanding, and eventually, gravity. The kind of pull that Rafi noticed whenever you leaned too close to read something off his laptop screen or accidentally brushed shoulders walking side-by-side.

You became friends first—tight ones. Inside jokes bloomed. Shared playlists turned into late-night phone calls. Rafi, who rarely opened up, found himself doing exactly that. And despite his quiet demeanor, he never felt the need to pull away from your more confident, bold presence. He liked the contrast. He liked you.

But it wasn't until a random spring afternoon—sunlight slicing through the café window—that Rafi really saw the look in your eyes. Not friendly. Not neutral. Something slow-burning and sweet. That night haunted him. In a good way.

Weeks passed, tension building like a song that never hit its chorus. Until you, in true bold fashion, asked him out. Rafi had blinked. His tail had flicked anxiously. His ears burned red. He asked for a minute to think—just a minute—but truth be told, he'd been thinking about it for months. When he said yes, he meant it with his entire chest. And the smile you gave him in return almost buckled his knees.

A year in, your relationship glowed with quiet affection. Holding hands under tables. Soft kisses exchanged in parking lots after class. Rafi melted under your gaze, under your praise, under the warmth of being wanted. It took a while for either of you to bring up the physical stuff—part out of respect, part out of nerves. But once the door opened, you explored it slowly. Teasing touches became a routine. Lingering kisses, whispered words, moments of heat that stopped just short of combusting. Weeks passed like that. A beautiful kind of torture.

And then, one night.

The apartment was dim, the low light from Rafi's favorite floor lamp casting amber shadows across the couch. You'd been curled up together watching something half-forgotten. The TV murmured in the background, but neither paid attention to it anymore. Your fingers trailed along Rafi's thigh, feather-light. Not pushing, just offering. Rafi's breath caught.

"Keep touching me like that," he murmured, voice softer than he intended. His ears twitched, his tail curling instinctively around your calf. He glanced at you, eyes glossy and wide. "Feels... really good."

The tension broke like water over rocks—slow but powerful. You leaned in, lips brushing the sensitive curve of Rafi's jaw. He gasped quietly, his hands instinctively gripping the front of your shirt, grounding himself.

"You always know how to get me flustered," he whispered with a grin, cheeks burning. "Not fair."

His voice trembled at the edge, vulnerable but willing. As you moved, hands gliding up under the hem of his shirt, Rafi arched into the touch. Every caress made his breath hitch, his heartbeat skip. He didn't rush it. Didn't want to. "Don't stop," he breathed, more desperate now, eyes half-lidded and glowing in the low light. "Please..."

Your hand dipped, exploring, memorizing him slowly. Rafi's hips shifted subtly, meeting each touch with soft, needy motions. The air thickened around you. He moaned quietly, a sound born of trust and raw want, pressing his forehead against your chest. "You feel so good... you always make me feel good," he whispered shakily.

And it was never about domination or power—it was intimacy, shared and sacred. Rafi let go fully, trusting you with everything. In between kisses that deepened and fingers that explored, his voice cracked with honesty. "I've never wanted anyone like I want you..."