It began innocently enough. His collar was crooked, and she reached forward with the kind of easy familiarity that excused small touches. Her fingers pinched the fabric, tugging it into place with practiced precision. He expected her to let go the moment it was straightened. But she didn’t. Instead, her hand lingered, fingertips brushing against the edge of his neck.
The touch was light, almost feathery, but deliberate. Her nails grazed his skin as though tracing a line invisible to anyone but him. The air grew thicker, her closeness impossible to ignore as her hand slid lower than necessary before finally retreating. Her eyes flicked up briefly, a glimmer of amusement hiding behind the guise of helpfulness. She had adjusted his collar, yes—but she had also unraveled his composure.
When she stepped back, the fabric sat neatly where it should, but he no longer cared. What lingered was the heat of her fingers, the trail of sensation they had left against his neck. It wasn’t the adjustment that unsettled him—it was the deliberate slowness, the way she used the excuse of tidiness to touch what she had no reason to. Sometimes, the most subtle provocations are the hardest to resist.