Her fingers traced the line of his arm—slow, deliberate, like a question without words.
She didn’t seek to soothe or reassure.
She wanted to remind him.
To slow him down.
To make him wait.
Each inch her hand traveled was a test.
Would he stay patient?
Would he feel the tension build without rushing to ease it?
Her touch was a promise and a challenge.
Not a surrender, but a command.
He felt the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, the subtle tightening of muscles under his palm.
But when her hand paused at his wrist, she lingered just long enough to make him ache.
Not to beg.
Not to plead.
But to prove he could hold back.
And only then—only when she decided—would she let go.