It was an unhurried movement at first—her fingertips brushing his waistband before slipping under the hem of his shirt. The warmth of her hand on his skin was sudden, electric, the kind of contact that sends a shiver up the spine before the mind has time to process it.
She wasn’t looking at what she was doing—her gaze stayed locked on his face, as if reading every reaction. And then it happened. His breath caught—not a gasp, but a subtle hitch, the kind you feel more than hear.
That tiny shift stopped her in her tracks. Her hand stilled against him, palm flat, as though she had just found something more interesting than the act itself—the effect it had. The moment stretched, and in that pause, she seemed to weigh whether to keep going or to hold him right there, teetering between control and surrender.
Her eyes softened, but her lips curved in something close to a smirk. She pulled her hand back slightly—not to end the touch, but to make him notice its absence. The ghost of her warmth lingered against his skin, a reminder of where she had been… and where she might go again.
Sometimes intimacy isn’t in the act—it’s in the hesitation. In the second where both people know what could happen next, but one chooses to hold it just out of reach. And in that suspended breath, desire doesn’t fade—it sharpens.