It began with something so subtle he almost thought he imagined it. Her hand brushed against his, a casual touch in passing, but then it didn’t leave. Instead, her fingertips rested lightly on his wrist, soft and deliberate. He felt the warmth of her skin against his, the faint pressure of her nails just grazing. Then, slowly, deliberately, she began to trace small circles there—slow, unhurried, and impossible to ignore.
The circles didn’t mean anything, not in words, not in logic. But his body responded as if they carried weight. Each spiral of her touch seemed to pull him inward, quieting everything else around them. She didn’t look at him right away, didn’t acknowledge what she was doing, as though this small act of possession needed no explanation. He felt his pulse against her fingertips, the quickened rhythm betraying what he tried not to show.
It wasn’t just touch—it was control. She lingered longer than polite, longer than necessary. The softness of her fingertips kept him trapped in the question: did she know what she was doing, or was it simply an unconscious gesture? But then, just as he tried to dismiss it, she drew a smaller, tighter circle, pressing down just enough to make him certain it was intentional. His breath hitched.
The moment stretched. He wanted to catch her eye, to see if she would let him in on the secret. But she didn’t meet his gaze. She let her silence hold power, her fingertips continuing their silent script across his skin, each motion burning into his nerves. She didn’t explain, and that was the most intoxicating part—it was left for him to imagine. The circles could have been nothing. They could have been everything.
And when she finally pulled her hand away, the warmth stayed. His wrist still tingled with the ghost of her touch, his body alive with the absence she left behind. He knew he’d carry the sensation long after she was gone, replaying it, wondering how much more she might draw if he let her.