The first button came undone with a soft click, the fabric parting just enough to tease what lay beneath. His fingers hovered over the second, already imagining the path they’d take. But before he could move, her hand came down—firm, warm, covering his completely.
It wasn’t a rejection. Her palm pressed against the back of his hand, holding it in place, as if to say “Not yet.” She kept her eyes on his, her lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile that carried more promise than any rush toward the finish.
The heat between their joined hands seemed to spread, sinking into his skin. He could feel her pulse against his knuckles, the steady rhythm of someone entirely in control of the moment. Slowly, she guided his hand away from the buttons, sliding it instead to her side, where the fabric was still smooth and untouched.
It wasn’t about stopping him—it was about showing him that anticipation is sweeter when it’s stretched thin. And as his fingers curled lightly at her waist, he realized she was teaching him the real art wasn’t in undressing her… it was in making the first undone button feel like the most important one.