He stood still, unsure if he should move closer—or pull away. But she didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.
Her hand came up slowly, hovering just above his chest. The tip of one finger brushed the fabric of his shirt near the collar. It wasn’t a touch exactly—more like a tease. She followed the seam, down the curve of the button line, letting her nail graze gently where the cotton met skin.
It was the kind of contact that made everything else disappear.
He could feel the heat building between them, not from anything loud or obvious—but from the quiet way her fingertip explored. Not grabbing. Not groping. Just… knowing.
She stopped at the second button and looked up, her eyes calm but focused. Still no words. Just pressure—unspoken, heavy, intimate.
He tried to breathe evenly, but it was impossible. The way she touched him—it was like she was reading something in braille. Every inch, every pause told a story. And he could only stand there and let her turn the pages.
She didn’t undo a single button. She didn’t have to. He already felt undone.