At first, it was the lightest touch, almost accidental—her fingers brushing against the skin of his wrist as if testing how close she could come without being noticed. But the moment lingered, and the brush became a slow tracing, deliberate and steady, following the faint pulse that beat just beneath his skin. He felt the weight of it immediately, the kind of touch that was too careful to be casual.
When he shifted slightly, trying to pull his hand back, her fingers closed with just enough pressure to stop him. Not forceful, but commanding. The kind of grip that told him she was not asking—she was keeping him there. His breath caught, his heart stumbling as her thumb pressed gently, almost soothing, as though she was reminding him of how fast it was racing. He realized then that she could feel his weakness, feel his hesitation, and she enjoyed it.
Her gaze lifted to his, calm yet charged with something dangerous. The soft curve of her lips hinted at a secret smile, one that dared him to resist her grip. But he didn’t. His wrist remained in her hold, his entire body betraying him with its stillness. And in that silence, he understood—she wasn’t holding him back. She was holding him exactly where she wanted him.