At first, it seemed accidental—the way she tilted her head, the way her hair brushed against his cheek as she leaned in. But the moment her breath fanned against his ear, warm and deliberate, he knew it wasn’t chance. He stiffened, caught between the urge to lean closer and the instinct to draw back. His body betrayed him; a shiver rippled through him before he could stop it.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. That was the point. A slow smile curled across her lips, though he couldn’t see it—he could only feel the charged stillness in the air. She lingered there, letting the silence throb, letting him wonder what she might whisper—or if she would whisper at all. Each second she stayed close was another turn of the screw, winding the tension tighter, forcing him to feel the heat of her presence.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost teasing: “So… you do feel it.” It wasn’t really a question, but an observation, one she already knew the answer to. He swallowed, his throat dry, resisting the temptation to respond. She hadn’t asked for words. She wanted reactions, involuntary, unguarded—like the shiver she had just drawn out of him.
And when she finally pulled back, it wasn’t with distance but with precision—her lips brushing so close to his skin that it left a ghost of contact behind. He exhaled shakily, realizing that she had orchestrated everything—every pause, every near-touch—just to prove she could control his body without even laying a hand on him.