Timing can be more dangerous than touch itself. He didn’t rush, didn’t grab, didn’t move with the urgency of someone desperate. Instead, he waited, letting silence grow heavy between them, letting her wonder when—or if—it would happen at all. The anticipation was a game, and she was caught in it, trembling at what hadn’t even happened yet.
When his hand finally moved, it wasn’t shocking in placement—it was shocking in timing. Just as she had relaxed, convinced he wouldn’t go further, he did. His touch landed not with force, but with precision, breaking through her guard at the exact moment she was most unprepared. That was why she gasped—not because of where, but because of when.
And in that pause, in that single daring moment, he taught her something she hadn’t admitted to herself: it was never about territory, never about which part of her he claimed. It was about patience, about choosing the moment she least expected and turning it into the one she would never forget. Timing was his weapon, and she was defenseless against it.