It began with the smallest of gestures—his hand brushing against her wrist in passing, the kind of touch that could easily be mistaken for accident. But it wasn’t. She felt the pressure linger, the way his palm curved just slightly, claiming more than a fleeting moment.
Her first instinct was to pull away. That would have been proper, expected. But she didn’t. Instead, she froze, her breath catching in her throat, her heart thudding with a rhythm she thought she had forgotten. She let his hand stay. Longer than necessary. Longer than polite. Longer than safe.
There was something intimate about the wrist—so exposed, so delicate, where the veins carried both warmth and pulse. His thumb rested there lightly, as though he could feel her blood rushing faster beneath the skin. And she wondered if he knew what it did to her—that this simple contact was more intoxicating than an embrace.
The seconds stretched. His eyes flicked toward her, waiting, testing, perhaps expecting her to draw the line. But she didn’t. She let the moment breathe. She let the weight of his touch deepen. She let herself imagine how easily it could travel—up her arm, across her shoulder, down into places she had not let anyone touch for years.
Her silence was permission, though she never said it aloud. And in that silence, there was power. It was not the boldness of youth, not the reckless surrender of a woman caught in her first temptation. No—this was slower, steadier, more dangerous. The kind of power born from knowing exactly what she was doing, and choosing not to stop.
When he finally drew his hand back, the absence stung more than the presence ever had. Her wrist tingled, marked by a phantom warmth, as though the skin itself remembered. She closed her fingers around the spot, as if she could trap the feeling there, keep it alive a little longer.
She should have pushed him away. She should have scolded, or laughed, or pretended it was nothing. But instead, she leaned into the memory of it, savoring the thrill. For in that single act of letting his hand stay, she had admitted something—to herself, if not to him. That she wanted it. That she had missed it. That even now, she was still capable of desire.