Her hands trembled when she kissed him—but not when she undressed him. The first brush of her lips was tentative, her fingers shaking as they tangled in his hair, like she might pull away at any second. He thought it was nerves, the kind that comes with firsts, until her palms flattened against his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt.
That’s when the trembling stopped. Her fingers moved with sudden precision, each button released with a deliberate flick, no hesitation, no shakiness. The contrast was jarring—soft, quivering lips against steady, purposeful hands. He realized too late: the trembling had been a performance, a mask to make him think she was fragile, uncertain.
Her mouth stayed gentle, even as her hands grew bolder, sliding beneath the fabric to map his skin, unbuckling his belt with a confidence that made his breath catch. She knew exactly what she was doing—using softness to disarm, then striking with clarity. By the time his shirt fell away, he was the one feeling unsteady, while she remained calm, in control, her hands never faltering. That initial tremble? Just a trick to make the rest feel like a revelation.