Her hand brushed his wrist as she reached for the glass. It could have been nothing—an accident, a fleeting touch. But instead of pulling away, her fingers lingered, curling softly around his skin, just long enough for him to feel the difference. His pulse jumped instantly, betraying the effect she had with the smallest movement. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t grip tightly, just rested there, her fingertips warm, delicate, commanding in their gentleness.
He looked at her, searching her face for any sign of acknowledgment, but she continued speaking casually, her tone smooth and unbroken. It was as though she hadn’t noticed at all—yet the subtle pressure of her fingers said otherwise. Each second she remained was another reminder that she was in control, that she could push him with nothing more than the soft graze of her hand. The stillness was torture, his body straining against the calmness she carried so effortlessly.
Finally, she let go, but not quickly. Her fingers slipped from his wrist slowly, sliding against his skin as if reluctant to leave. The trail they left behind burned hotter than any embrace, a ghostly memory that pulsed with every beat of his heart. She smiled faintly, her eyes flicking toward him for just a second, enough to confirm she knew exactly what she had done. And he realized with a mix of dread and desire that she didn’t need to take him further—not yet. She could undo him entirely with the simplest gesture, a touch drawn out just long enough to make him imagine what it would feel like if she decided not to stop.