Your hand hovers in the air, halfway to her shoulder, when she steps back, just enough to make you pause. The couch dips where she’d been sitting, the indent still warm, but she’s standing now, arms crossed loosely over her chest, a faint tilt to her chin. “Not yet,” she says, and it’s not a whisper—there’s a firmness to it, like she’s closing a door you didn’t realize was open.
You’ve tried before. Reaching for her waist when you kiss, brushing her hair back when she laughs. Each time, she shifts away, not roughly, but with a quiet insistence that makes your hand drop. At first, you thought it was bashfulness, the kind that fades with time. But tonight, as she stands there watching you, her eyes clear and steady, you see it for what it is. This isn’t hesitation. It’s choice.
She moves closer again, slow, and when your fingers twitch, ready to reach, she shakes her head. “No,” she says, soft but sharp, and you stop. That’s the pattern—she sets the terms, dictates when the touch starts, and every denial is a reminder: this isn’t about what you want. It’s about control, not over you, but over the pace of things. She’s letting you see how badly you want it, how the wait sharpens every sensation.
When she finally leans in, pressing her palm to your chest, you almost sigh with relief. But the triumph is hers—she knows she’s earned it, not by giving in, but by making you wait. This isn’t shyness. It’s a lesson: desire tastes sweeter when it’s granted, not taken. And you? You’re learning to crave the denial almost as much as the touch.