The silk of his tie slid easily between her fingers, cool at first, then warmer as she wrapped it around her hand. She gave a gentle tug, pulling him forward until their faces were close enough for their breaths to mingle.
He thought she would close the distance. Every muscle in him leaned toward her. But at the last second, she stopped—and pulled him back just an inch.
The movement was small, but it felt enormous. That inch might as well have been a mile, and she knew it. Her eyes stayed on his, the tie still wound in her grip, holding him exactly where she wanted him—close enough to ache, far enough to want.
She didn’t let go. The tension in the fabric mirrored the tension in the air, a line stretched tight between them. He could feel the control in her hands, the promise that when she did close that inch, it would be on her terms.
And he realized—sometimes the strongest pull isn’t the one that brings you together. It’s the one that keeps you just far enough apart to make every nerve in your body lean forward.