At first, his hand rested idly in his lap, unnoticed by anyone but her. Then she reached beneath the table, her touch sudden, deliberate. Her fingers brushed his once, lightly, before curling around them with more certainty. Before he could pull back, she laced her fingers between his, threading them together in a grip that was both intimate and commanding. It wasn’t the gentle clasp of affection; it was possession. She squeezed just enough to make sure he knew she wasn’t letting go. A rush of heat spread through his chest as he sat perfectly still, trying not to reveal the storm unfolding under the tablecloth.
Her thumb began to move in slow, deliberate strokes across the back of his hand, the subtle motion masked from sight but impossible for him to ignore. Every brush sent a pulse of awareness racing through him, her claim reinforced with every tightening of her grip. He tried to shift slightly, but she responded by interlacing her fingers even tighter, as though she were daring him to resist. Her posture above the table remained casual, her laughter effortless, but beneath, she was making a declaration: your hand is mine now. The secrecy of it, the boldness, made his pulse thunder in his ears.
When she finally loosened her hold, it wasn’t a release—it was a tease. Her fingers slipped lazily against his, grazing his knuckles, lingering at the edges of his palm before reclaiming him all over again. The cycle repeated, tightening, loosening, stroking, controlling, each motion dripping with intent. By the time she finally let his hand go, his skin burned with the memory of her grip, his own fingers twitching as though they still belonged to her. He realized then that her act hadn’t been casual. She had claimed ownership in the simplest, boldest way possible—by holding on until he trembled with the need for more.