He glances at her hand moving across the table, expecting a casual reach for the napkin she had dropped. But then it brushes over the edge of the table and drifts lower, her fingers resting for just a heartbeat on his lap. His pulse hammers against his ribs; the innocent excuse of “searching for the napkin” is gone the instant her skin touches his, and yet she continues with the same deliberate nonchalance. He can’t tell if it’s accident or intention, but the weight of the contact leaves him tense, every nerve alive with anticipation.
She doesn’t speak of it, doesn’t acknowledge the moment, which makes it far more potent. The subtle pressure, the warmth of her fingers against him, is enough to make him forget the conversation around them. He feels caught between propriety and desire, and he knows she’s aware. Her eyes are fixed on her plate, her lips twitching at a private joke only she understands, but her hand writes a language of temptation directly onto his body.
Finally, she withdraws it slowly, letting him realize exactly where her fingers had rested and how much control she had exercised. She doesn’t need to say a word; the invitation hangs in the space between them, more provocative than any overt action. He exhales shakily, aware that restraint has already begun to crumble, and that she has orchestrated every moment of it.