He leans in because he thinks she’s about to say something important. That’s how she tricks him. Her tone drops low, almost conspiratorial, but the words don’t matter—not when her lips are this close. He can’t even catch half of what she says, the syllables dissolving into a breath that brushes warm across his skin. It’s not the sound that unsettles him, it’s the nearness. The sense that if he tilts forward even slightly, the whisper won’t be words anymore.
Her perfume mixes with the taste of wine on her breath, heady enough that he stops caring about meaning. The softness of her mouth hovers like a secret, dangerous because it’s not touching, because it’s staying just far enough to keep him aching. Every syllable is drawn out, stretched like a thread ready to snap. He wonders if she’s doing it on purpose, if she knows how hard it is for him to stay perfectly still, to resist the pull of her lips brushing air instead of skin.
And then she laughs softly, almost against his mouth, retreating just an inch but leaving the ghost of heat behind. He knows she’s enjoying it—the power of not giving, of making him imagine what’s just out of reach. It’s the kind of temptation that feels sharper than any kiss: not the act itself, but the exquisite cruelty of being kept waiting, of being close enough to taste something without ever being allowed to have it.