It was nothing, really—just a stray drop of wine running down her fingertip. But the way she paused before bringing it to her lips made it something else entirely. She didn’t rush; she lifted her finger as though savoring the accident, eyes locked on his as if daring him to acknowledge the motion. His chest tightened, not from the sight itself, but from the unspoken knowledge of what she meant by doing it so deliberately. Every second she held his gaze was a second longer he had to pretend he wasn’t thinking of her tongue, of where else that slow patience might lead.
Her finger touched her lips, not to wipe but to linger, dragging the drop in a way that was less about drinking and more about demonstration. He swallowed, feeling his throat betray him, because she knew the effect it had. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t soften—just watched, steady and unyielding, measuring the control he was losing piece by piece. It was an invitation, yes, but not a simple one. She was letting him see her test him, letting him know she enjoyed the power in making him tremble without touching him at all.
By the time she finally drew her finger into her mouth, it was already too much. He knew he shouldn’t imagine the warmth, shouldn’t think about how her lips closed around more than just a taste of wine. Yet he did, helplessly, because that was her intention—to make sure his restraint frayed with each deliberate motion. When she finally pulled her finger free, her lips glistened just slightly, and she smiled faintly, as though she knew he’d already lost, even if he still sat perfectly still across the table.