He thought he knew where she wanted to be touched.
His hand, trembling with confidence, rested just above her waist. It was a classic move—slow, respectful, but leading. She didn’t resist. Not at first.
Then, with a softness that felt more like command than consent, she took his wrist.
And moved it lower.
His breath caught. Every nerve lit with anticipation. But just when he thought she was guiding him to the place every man assumes is his goal—she stopped.
Not between her thighs. Not beneath the curve of her hip.
But along the inside of her knee.
The skin there? Silken. Almost trembling.
And the moment? Far more electric than if she’d simply opened herself.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. She simply pressed his hand there—and waited.
As if testing whether he could handle the slowest kind of invitation. The kind that required restraint, not reaction.
Most men would have missed the signal. They would’ve tried to shift upward, assuming that desire means directness.
But she wasn’t asking for friction.
She was asking for focus.
And as his fingers learned her language—not rushing, not climbing, just staying where she had placed him—her breathing changed. Not louder. Not heavier. Just deeper.
That was her real yes.
And it had nothing to do with where he touched her.
But how.