His fingers brushed hers by accident, or so he thought, as they both reached for the wine bottle. He started to pull back, mumble an apology, when she wrapped her hand around his, her skin warm and dry against his. Not a quick, shy grasp—firm, deliberate, like she was anchoring him.
Then she moved, slow as a cat, leading his hand away from the table, past the curve of her hip, until it rested on the small of her back, where the fabric of her dress was thin, the heat of her skin seeping through. He sucked in a breath, and she glanced up at him, a half-smile playing at her lips. “Warmer,” she said, her voice low, and he realized the “accident” had been anything but.
This was her way—subtle, but unmissable. Not demanding, but directing, showing him exactly where she wanted to be touched without needing to ask. He’d been tentative, too careful, treating the moment like it might break, but she was teaching him to be bolder. Her hand stayed wrapped around his, pressing it firmer against her back, and he let himself lean into it, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat through the fabric.
When she finally let go, her fingers trailing up his arm before dropping away, his hand stayed where she’d placed it, like she’d left an invisible mark. Some guides were gentle. Hers was a reminder that desire didn’t need to be timid—and neither did he.