She holds her glass gently, not to drink but to play. Her fingertip drifts along the rim in slow, hypnotic circles, each pass softer and smoother than the last. The sound it makes is faint, almost like a hum, but his attention isn’t on the note—it’s on the motion. Round and round she goes, steady and patient, as though she has all night to tease him with nothing more than a finger and the suggestion of what else it might do. He tries to act indifferent, to focus on anything else, but his mind refuses to let go of the rhythm she’s creating.
It’s not just the motion, but the gaze she pairs with it. Her eyes are lowered, watching her own hand as if even she is entranced by the ritual. Yet now and then, they flick up to catch his—swift, sharp, deliberate. She knows what he sees, what he imagines. Every circle she draws on the glass feels like it’s being traced along the edges of his own restraint. His pulse quickens, and he wonders if she can sense it, if she’s measuring the pace of his breath against the pace of her finger.
When she finally lifts the glass, she doesn’t sip right away. Instead, she lets her tongue follow where her finger had been, a slow, delicate touch that leaves his throat dry. She drinks at last, her lips pressed against the same edge she had been caressing moments before, and he finds himself aching at the intimacy of a gesture so simple. The glass is only half full, but he feels emptied—of composure, of patience, of the fragile barrier that kept him steady. All because of the way she held it.