It wasn’t a passionate kiss.
Not the kind that’s wet or breathless.
It was one press of her lips to his—deliberate, measured, almost too brief to be real.
But when she pulled away, she didn’t look away. She held his gaze, daring him to interpret what it meant.
His body froze—but not his hands. They twitched, unsure where to go.
To her waist? Too presumptuous.
To her back? Too safe.
To her thigh, maybe—if he was brave enough to ignore the quiet smirk she wore now.
She’d kissed him, yes—but not out of affection.
It was a test.
A signal.
One act to see what he would ask for next without using a single word.
His breathing changed. His fingers hovered, suspended in hesitation.
That was the real power she held—not in what she gave, but in what she withheld.
She didn’t guide his touch. She let the space between them thicken, let him fumble through the silence, seeking permission that she never intended to give—out loud.
Because the truth was, she didn’t need to speak.
She had kissed him once.
And now he was hers, scrambling to earn the second one.