Her nails weren’t sharp, but they knew how to leave a trail. Starting at the back of his neck, she dragged them lightly, slowly, down his spine. Each inch felt longer than it should, each pause deliberate, as though she was marking him in invisible ink.
When she reached the small of his back, she stopped. Completely. Her hands rested there, warm and still, but unmoving. He waited for the next stroke, the next slow scratch, but it didn’t come.
Instead, she leaned closer, her breath against his ear, saying nothing—just letting the silence stretch. The absence of her touch was almost louder than the touch itself.
He shifted slightly, as if to prompt her, but her stillness held him. She wasn’t teasing in the usual sense; she was letting him feel the contrast between sensation and the lack of it. Between now and not yet.
When her nails finally moved again, it was upward, retracing the same path with agonizing patience. The second pass felt sharper, more intense—not because she’d changed her touch, but because he’d been waiting for it.
That was her skill—knowing that in the right hands, waiting isn’t an interruption. It’s the thing that makes you lean in for more.