It’s always the same—an accidental brush, a fleeting contact, but it sends a shock through her system every single time. He doesn’t do it deliberately, or at least, that’s what she tells herself. Maybe it’s just the way they both maneuver around the small space, brushing against each other unintentionally, but every time his fingers graze her arm, something inside her stirs. She knows it’s only a momentary touch, but the effect lingers long after. His fingers are warm, his touch subtle but firm, as if he knows exactly how to make her body react.
At first, she thought she was imagining the electric jolt that shot through her every time he came near, but now, she knows it’s real. Her heart races, her breath catches, and there’s an undeniable tension that she can’t shake. She tries to play it off, pretend it’s nothing, but how could it be nothing when her pulse quickens and her body betrays her so easily? His touch, even as innocent as it seems, sends ripples of heat to places she’s never been willing to acknowledge.
She pulls her arm back slightly, instinctively, as if distancing herself from the overwhelming sensation, but it’s useless. The warmth from his fingers seems to linger on her skin, igniting a craving she can’t deny. She feels a strange mix of guilt and excitement—guilt because she knows better, because he’s a married man and she shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t even be entertained by the thought of it. But the excitement, the thrill, is undeniable. It’s as if that small touch is a promise, an unspoken invitation to something more.
Her mind races, picturing what it would be like if his touch lingered longer. What would happen if he didn’t pull away, if his hand slid up her arm, tracing the curve of her shoulder? Would she lean into him? Would she let herself succumb to the pull that seems to draw her closer with every passing moment?
The problem is, she can’t stop thinking about it. She can’t stop imagining the heat of his touch, and every time their arms brush, it only reinforces that secret desire buried deep inside her. She wants more—more of the connection, more of the electricity that hums in the air when they’re near. She’s terrified of the consequences, of what could happen if she allowed herself to act on it, but the desire continues to grow stronger. And every time he touches her arm, the pulse of her heart reminds her of the truth she can’t quite deny: she secretly wants him, and the touch of his hand is a dangerous temptation she isn’t sure she’ll be able to resist for much longer.