It was just a glass of wine, nothing more. But the way her hand moved along the curve of it turned the simplest act into something he couldn’t pull his eyes away from. She wasn’t drinking—she was drawing out the moment, her fingertip gliding lazily over the rim as if the glass itself deserved to be savored. The motion was slow, almost hypnotic, and he realized with a jolt that she knew exactly what she was doing.
The sound of her nail faintly scraping against the crystal was subtle but deliberate, like a whisper meant for him alone. She didn’t look at him at first—she let his gaze linger on her hands, on the way each movement promised something just out of reach. And when she finally did meet his eyes, it was with the faintest curve of a smile, the kind that didn’t need translation.
Her fingers paused at the exact moment he swallowed, then began moving again, slower this time. The wine in the glass barely shifted, but the tension in his chest did. He wondered if she could feel the weight of his attention from across the table. She must have, because her thumb slipped just under the rim now, tracing along the inside, her skin leaving a faint mark where condensation met warmth.
It was absurd, he thought—being undone by the way a woman touched a piece of glass. But the truth was, it wasn’t the glass she was touching. Not really.