His fingers settled lightly on her waist, expecting that to be his invitation to lead, to take control. But she didn’t shift or yield as he anticipated.
Instead, she moved with a quiet confidence that told a different story.
Her hips swayed—not in response to his touch, but on their own terms, a slow, deliberate motion that made it clear she was the one setting the pace.
He tried to match her rhythm, to find a harmony, but she was always a step ahead—owning every inch of the moment.
It wasn’t a battle, nor a surrender.
It was a dance where she was the choreographer.
His hands could hold, could guide, but never dictate.
And as she moved with that commanding grace, he realized the truth:
Touching her waist wasn’t about control.
It was about joining her.
But only if he was willing to follow.