He was ready to close the distance, to let the energy between them finally break into something undeniable.
But just as he leaned in, her hand pressed firmly against his chest.
“Wait.”
She didn’t say it aloud, but the pressure in her palm said everything.
A clear boundary.
A deliberate pause.
Yet while her hand held him back, her legs told a different story.
One knee shifted closer, brushing against his.
Then her thighs pressed together—not in rejection, but in a kind of charged stillness that pulled him deeper into the moment.
His instincts warred with each other.
Part of him wanted to respect the pause.
Another part was drawn in by the unspoken permission in her body language.
She watched him carefully, measuring not just what he would do, but what he wouldn’t.
The tension was exquisite—both of them aware of the contradiction, neither willing to break it too soon.
And when she finally let her hand fall away from his chest, it wasn’t because she was giving in.
It was because she had made sure he understood:
He could only move forward when she allowed it.
And that allowance was far more intoxicating than any rush could ever be.