It started as a touch so gentle it could have been mistaken for an idle gesture. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his neck, fingers barely grazing the nape, soft as if she were reassuring herself as much as him. But as he shifted slightly, unsure of the weight of her presence, her hand followed—pressing a little firmer, curling around the base of his skull, anchoring him without force but with undeniable intent.
He could feel the warmth of her palm radiating into his skin, and every nerve in his body seemed to react at once. That simple touch carried more than comfort—it carried a message, one that spoke louder than any words could. Stay. Don’t move. And even if he had wanted to pull away, the light, deliberate pressure of her fingers made him hesitate, trapped in a delicious tension he had no desire to break.
The way she held him was gradual. First, soft and teasing, testing his reaction, then firm enough that he felt her claim through subtle insistence. His mind raced, imagining what would happen if he dared to shift under her grip, what her hand might do if he leaned into it. But he didn’t. He stayed. She smiled faintly, calm, knowing she had him exactly where she wanted. That hand on the back of his neck, gentle yet insistent, was her quiet power—and he surrendered willingly, feeling every inch of her touch resonate deep inside him.