At first, it seemed like nothing more than a casual touch. Her hand rested on his shoulder as she leaned in, steadying herself, perhaps even polite. But then it didn’t leave. It stayed a heartbeat longer, her fingers pressing lightly, sending a warmth through the fabric of his shirt that spread faster than it should have. He waited for her to move, to pull back, but instead, her hand slid—slowly, deliberately—lower than necessary.
The movement was subtle, careful, yet unmistakable. Her fingers traced the line of his arm, lingering as if memorizing the shape of him. He stiffened, caught between the urge to lean closer and the fear of breaking the fragile spell she was weaving. She said nothing, her voice calm as she continued whatever harmless words filled the silence. But her hand told a different story. Each inch she traveled downward made his pulse thunder louder, made his restraint unravel further. She was touching him like a secret, one that neither of them would admit aloud.
When at last she pulled away, she did it slowly, her fingertips dragging just enough to leave a trail of heat behind. The loss of contact was almost worse than the touch itself, leaving him aching with the emptiness it created. She smiled faintly, as though nothing had happened, but the glimmer in her eyes betrayed her intent. She had left her mark without leaving evidence, had undone him with a gesture so simple it might have seemed innocent to anyone else. And he knew, with a mix of dread and hunger, that she wouldn’t have to do much more. One lingering touch was enough to remind him that he was already hers, and she hadn’t even begun.