He leaned in, believing this was the moment he had been building toward all evening.
The subtle glances, the almost-accidental brushes of their hands, the way she laughed at the right moments—he thought it was all leading to him.
And in a way, it was.
Just not the way he imagined.
Because while he was calculating his move, she had already set the parameters of the game.
Her body angled toward him, but just enough to suggest invitation—not enough to confirm it.
Her gaze met his, but didn’t linger; it drifted, making him work to pull it back.
When he finally placed his hand on her thigh, thinking he was initiating, she smiled.
Not the soft, flattered kind of smile he expected.
It was the knowing smile of someone who had been waiting for exactly that moment, because she knew it would come.
Then she shifted—just slightly—so his hand slid an inch higher than he planned, and in that subtle adjustment, she took control.
Now he was following her lead, his touch reacting to her movement, his pace dictated by her stillness.
He thought he’d arrived at the peak of the evening.
She knew they were only at the first checkpoint.
And every step forward from here?
Would happen when she decided.