At first, it was accidental—at least it could have been. Her knee brushed against his beneath the table, light, quick, the kind of contact two people might ignore. He felt it, of course, but told himself not to dwell on it. Then it happened again. A little firmer, a little higher this time, the warmth of her skin pressing through fabric. He froze, waiting for her to move away. But she didn’t.
Instead, she held her place. The pressure of her knee stayed against his thigh, steady, undeniable. It wasn’t forceful, but it was deliberate—an unspoken declaration that she knew exactly what she was doing. He became hyper-aware of every inch where they touched, the heat seeping into him, spreading through his body in a way that made it hard to think.
The rest of the world faded. The conversation at the table, the sounds around them—all of it blurred. All he could focus on was the contact, the weight of her leg against his. He thought about shifting away, but the thought died quickly. The truth was, he didn’t want to move. He wanted to feel how much further she might go. And she seemed to know it.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her knee pressed closer, brushing higher again, testing. His breath grew shallow. She didn’t look at him; her face remained composed, her voice steady as if nothing unusual was happening. But the subtle curve at the corner of her lips betrayed her. She knew the effect. She was playing the silence, forcing him to react without giving him anything to grasp.
Every second of her lingering touch became heavier, more intimate. The contact wasn’t accidental anymore—it was possession, quiet and insistent. And when she finally shifted slightly, her knee dragging against him before moving back, the absence hit like a wave. He was left restless, tense, wishing she hadn’t stopped. Because now he knew—it hadn’t been chance. It had been intention, pure and deliberate, and it left him wanting more.