Her hands close over his, guiding them to her waist, her fingers wrapping around his until he’s gripping the fabric of her shirt, the curve of her hips beneath it. “There,” she says, soft but firm, and he thinks at first it’s about closeness—wanting to feel him near, to ground herself in the touch. But then she moves, and he realizes it’s something else entirely.
She steps back, pulling him with her, his hands still locked in hers, and when she turns, her back to his chest, she presses his palms to her stomach, then up, slow, until they’re splayed over her ribs. “Feel that?” she asks, and he does—the steady rise and fall of her breath, the way her body shifts beneath his hands, leading him, directing him, even as he’s the one touching.
This isn’t comfort. It’s a lesson: his hands might be on her, but she’s the one in control. Every step, every tilt, every slow press of his palms against her skin is dictated by the subtle shift of her hips, the tension in her shoulders, the quiet direction of her hands over his. He’s not leading. He’s following, and she wants him to know it—to feel the weight of her guidance in the press of her fingers, the steady rhythm of her movement.
When she finally lets go, his hands stay where she left them, warm from the heat of her skin, and he understands. This is intimacy, but not the kind that’s equal. It’s the kind that’s deliberate, where one leads and the other follows—and he’s more than happy to follow her.