Her hand rose slowly, deliberately, until it hovered just inches from his chest. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, though she never closed the gap. That was the torment—knowing how close she was, yet how intentionally she denied him the relief of touch.
His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, each inhale brushing his shirt against her palm though she hadn’t made contact. The anticipation was maddening. He wanted her to press down, to claim the space, to anchor him with the weight of her touch. But she held back, her eyes fixed on his face, studying the way restraint carved new lines into his expression.
“Do you want it?” she asked softly, her tone edged with knowing cruelty. He couldn’t answer at first, his voice caught somewhere between pride and desperation. The silence stretched, and she tilted her head, her hand still hovering—so close, so unbearably close—that his body leaned toward her without realizing it.
Only then did she let her fingers graze the fabric—just the lightest brush, fleeting and electric. It was nothing and everything at once, and it made his whole body tense as though she had ignited something under his skin. Then, just as quickly, she withdrew, leaving him aching, suspended in that restless hunger.
She smiled, satisfied. The game was never about the touch itself. It was about making him crave it—about showing him how much control she held, even in the absence of contact. And the more he longed for her hand, the more he understood: the ache was exactly what she wanted him to feel.