She hadn’t even realized she was doing it until it was too late. His face had drifted closer while he was speaking, his words steady, his tone casual. But the closeness wasn’t casual at all—it was deliberate in its slowness, calculated in the way it tested her composure. And there she was, biting her lip, betraying what she felt before she could mask it.
Her lip caught gently between her teeth as she inhaled. She tried to hold her gaze steady, but the heat in his eyes made her heart stumble. Married men, she thought, carried that kind of calm pressure—the ability to close distance without ever making it feel rushed. Every inch he leaned closer was an invitation, and every small movement she made in response was her answer. The lip she bit so unconsciously was proof she wanted to taste something she hadn’t dared ask for.
When he finally pulled back, leaving that small gap of air between them, she realized her lip was still caught, her teeth pressing just enough to keep the anticipation alive. She let it go slowly, as if savoring the moment he had left behind. The truth was clear now: her lip bite wasn’t a slip of habit—it was a confession, silent but impossible to take back. And the way his eyes lingered told her he had understood every word of it.