At first, it was an accident—her fingers brushed against his, a fleeting touch that could have been dismissed with a polite smile. She expected him to recoil, to retreat the way a married man should. But he didn’t. His hand stayed exactly where it was, warm and steady, and that small refusal to withdraw made her knees weaken. It wasn’t the touch itself; it was the choice not to end it, the unspoken permission that flooded her body with heat.
The longer he left his hand there, the more dangerous it became. Her thoughts twisted with possibilities, her breath grew shallow, and she could no longer pretend it was nothing. A married man not pulling away meant more than touch—it meant desire hidden under restraint, a temptation acknowledged but not denied. The absence of rejection felt like an invitation, a silent agreement that what they both felt could no longer be ignored.
Her body betrayed her mind, leaning closer even as she told herself to stop. Every inch she moved toward him was fueled by the memory of that still hand, that refusal to retreat. Weakness turned into surrender, and surrender turned into hunger. By the time her knees fully gave way, she understood: it wasn’t about him holding her—it was about him not letting go.