There was something in the way she said it—not with a demand, not even a suggestion. Just a soft, low whisper, barely brushing the air between them. “Don’t touch me yet,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like an invitation sealed with fire.
He froze, unsure if it was restraint or rejection. But then her hand slid down his wrist, fingers feather-light, guiding him not forward—but to stillness.
Wait.
It wasn’t a word most men respected. In fact, it was the opposite of everything he’d learned. Touch fast, touch often. Impress her. Own the moment. But she didn’t want that. She wanted him quiet, still, breathing in rhythm with her.
So he watched. Watched as she shifted closer, the hem of her silk robe brushing his thigh. She didn’t part it. Didn’t tease with what lay beneath. Instead, she held his gaze, letting silence build something far more powerful than friction—anticipation.
Every breath became a decision. Every inch not touched, a battle lost—and won. And when her hand finally moved to his chest, it didn’t pull him into her. It just pressed down, gently, a signal: Not yet.
It was maddening. Exquisite. And somewhere in the tension, he realized: she wasn’t withholding. She was orchestrating. This wasn’t about touch. It was about surrender.
His.