It started like an accident—at least, that’s what he told himself. They were sitting close, too close, the air between them already thick with things neither had said. When her hand reached down, guiding his, he expected her to pull away as soon as the touch registered. But she didn’t. Instead, she pressed his palm lightly against the curve of her thigh, holding it there as if to test how long he would hesitate before reacting.
The heat rose almost instantly. He could feel the firmness of her muscles beneath the fabric, the faint tremor of her breath growing unsteady above him. She didn’t look at him right away—her eyes were fixed forward, her lips parted just slightly, as though she wanted him to notice not only the contact but the permission buried in it. When her fingers finally released his hand, she didn’t push him away. She let it stay, resting where she had placed it, as if that was where it belonged.
The seconds dragged, turning into something heavier, something deliberate. Every small shift of her leg pressed against his palm, every pause in her voice daring him to move further. She could have brushed him off at any moment, could have laughed it away. But she didn’t. The real provocation was not the touch itself—it was her silence, her refusal to reclaim what she had given, leaving him caught between restraint and the growing pull of her body under his hand.