She didn’t rush down his body.
That’s what made it worse.
Her fingers started at his collarbone—barely grazing the skin with the backs of her nails. Not stroking. Not tickling. Just… dragging.
A whisper of touch that promised nothing and suggested everything.
He held his breath, watching her eyes—not her hands. Because she wasn’t looking where she touched.
She was watching him.
Waiting.
Measuring.
When his chest twitched just slightly, just once—she stopped.
Right there.
That spot—just below his sternum, above his ribs—where nerves are raw and most men never expect to be noticed.
She paused.
Pressed just slightly.
And smiled.
“You don’t even know why this spot gets you,” she whispered, “but I do.”
Her lips hovered close, but she didn’t kiss him.
Instead, her fingers traced the same circle again… slower this time.
He arched—not in pleasure, but in anticipation.
Because that spot wasn’t meant to drive him crazy.
It was meant to remind him—his body wasn’t his own anymore.
Not when she was this close.
Not when she could make him feel everything…
Without going any lower.