The door clicks shut behind you, a finalizing sound that echoes through the quiet entryway. Before you can fully set down your keys, her hand lands on your waist—warm, firm, and possessive. It’s not a gentle caress but an anchor, pinning you in place as her other hand drifts lower, her fingertips teasingly brushing against the buckle of your belt. You instinctively lean in, anticipating the soft press of her lips, but she deftly turns her head, allowing your mouth to graze the smooth skin of her cheek instead. “Not yet,” she whispers, her voice laced with a hunger that speaks of slow, deliberate intention rather than hasty need.
This isn’t impatience. Impatience is rushed, clumsy, a race to the end. This is deliberate—her fingers working the belt loop, her thumb pressing into the hollow of your hip like she’s marking territory. You’ve seen her do this before, in small ways: stealing a fry off your plate without asking, borrowing your jacket and leaving her perfume on the collar, as if to say this belongs to me now. But here, with her hand on your belt, it’s unapologetic, a declaration that skips the pleasantries.
She tugs, just a little, and you step closer, your chest pressing against hers. “Greedy,” you tease, but your voice is rough, and she smiles—a sharp, knowing thing—as she unfastens the buckle. “Yours,” she says, but it sounds like mine. This isn’t about taking. It’s about claiming, the quiet assertion that what’s between you isn’t fleeting, isn’t casual. It’s hers, and she’s not afraid to reach for it first.