She had a type. Or rather, they thought she did. Bold men. Eager hands. Quick mouths. She’d smile at their confidence and let them believe they had her mapped out. Most of them got it wrong by a mile—and never noticed.
But there was one place—a single, almost imperceptible spot—that only the rarest man ever found. Not between her thighs. Not along the usual curves men worshipped. It was more hidden than that. More intimate.
An inch of skin just above her hipbone, beneath her ribs, soft and warm and overlooked. It wasn’t even what he did with it—it was that he noticed it at all. That he paused, breathed, and let his thumb rest there without expectation.
The man who found it didn’t press harder or move fast. He lingered. Curious. Respectful. And in that stillness, she felt something she hadn’t in years—not arousal, not even pleasure, but seen.
Because for her, desire wasn’t about the destination. It was the detour—the slow, uncertain search through unfamiliar terrain.
And when his lips finally met that forbidden inch, she didn’t gasp. She closed her eyes… and melted.