The kitchen was quiet except for the faint clink of glass and the low murmur of music from the other room. He stood at the counter when she approached, holding two drinks. With a soft smile, she extended one to him. It should have been nothing—just a simple gesture. But when their hands met, it became something else entirely.
Her fingers wrapped around the glass, brushing against his as she passed it over. Instead of letting go immediately, she let her touch linger, her fingertips grazing the inside of his wrist. The movement was subtle, deliberate, like a stroke disguised as accident.
He felt a shiver run up his arm, sharper than the chill of the drink itself. She looked at him as though nothing unusual had happened, but her hand stayed, her fingertips tracing lightly over the vein beneath his skin. It was slow, unhurried—an intimate exploration disguised as an innocent handover.
Finally, she released the glass, but not before her nails dragged gently along his wrist, leaving an invisible trail that burned hotter than fire. His pulse quickened, betraying him, and the flicker of amusement in her eyes told him she had noticed. She didn’t need to speak. That brief touch had already said everything she wanted him to hear.