When she took his hand, he thought it meant she was ready.
He was wrong.
She placed his hand exactly where she wanted it—low, steady, resting just on the inside of her thigh. Not moving. Not stroking. Just there.
His fingers twitched instinctively. She stopped him with a glance so soft it cut through him.
“That’s enough,” she said.
He didn’t understand at first. Wasn’t the point to do more? To go further? To make her gasp, squirm, beg?
But she didn’t want more. She wanted control. Not of him—but of her space, her tempo, her reaction.
She closed her eyes and breathed him in—not because he overwhelmed her, but because she was letting herself decide what came next.
And he—silent, stunned—realized he wasn’t the leader here. He was the student.
His hand remained still, and in that stillness, something stirred between them. Not heat—but permission.
Because she wasn’t waiting for him to take charge.
She was waiting to feel safe enough… to let go.