His many hands, multiplied, no longer mere reflections, no longer confined, as they stroke over you. While behind you, he’s lowering to his knees, in tune with your every desire, alternating his movements so that his hands never seem to compete.

You catch your breath, and he instantly knows the sound, he adores the praise, your gasp, primal and authentic, affirming involuntary pleasures, encouraging him to continue.

He sees your reflected beauty flowing out from every mirror and he confidently reads the pleasure curling on your lips and crinkling around your closed eyes; the thin lines of a frown forming where you’re trying to hold on, trying not to lose control, but your body is betraying you and he’s growing guilty with loving the sight of you losing to yourself.

“God, I love you Fox, when you’re this turned on…” he softly soothes, his voice centered, deep and warm, layered with confidence and control. His eyes reaching deep into you as you respond to his calling, momentarily opening yours to receive confirmation of his, adoring you.

You say nothing in reply, your gorgeous eyes closing with anticipation, as ever so slowly he starts to reach around and slowly move his firm hand down between your thighs.

And with a deep muscle memory, conditioned and obedient, you compress your supple spine, exhaling a sweet deep groan, wanting his touch to reach further.

“Hey” he softly coaxes, his voice soothing, almost a whisper, pressing his finger against the smooth, shaven split of your cunt and feeling you, wet and waiting.

His voice deepens, surrounding you, declaring: “You’re so beautiful fox, you’re soaked”, his salty words melting over you, whispering “you’re so hot, wet and tight” as you grind and groan against him.

The burning glow of the log fire dances in the mirrors, a circle of warm light surrounding you, your fantasies interweaving in the flames, your dreams coming to life, eyes closing, the muscles in your body flexing and easing, feeling his fingers slowly push and stroke.

His fingertips absorb the wet of your sex, the proteins and enzymes of your desire, invisible pheromones clouding his senses, his mind alive with thirst and hunger, his tongue dry, growing restless and desperate with wanting to taste you.

But he’s patient, confident yet fearful, seeing his physical reflections surrounding you, his hands running over you, wanting to hasten your arousal, but hesitant, holding back, desperate not to break the spell.

A spell where his fears wrestle with his courage, his experience wanting so much more of you, and his innocence fearing the fantasy could break at any moment.

He feels your thoughts inside his mind, your consciences connected as he curls his first two fingers up inside you, feeling you squeeze against him, holding your concentration there.

And as he gently rocks his wrist, his fingers rub inside, his knuckles slipping, in and out, wet and welcome, while he moves his mouth closer to yours, keeping his taut body, flexed tight, so close, until you feel him everywhere.