He thought she wanted him.
She did. But not the way he imagined.
She leaned into him, her body molding to his—soft curves against hard muscle, lips near his neck, breath warm and dangerously slow.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tighter.
That’s when she stilled.
Not pulling away.
Not retreating.
But freezing—her lips at his ear.
And then came the whisper:
“Not yet.”
It wasn’t a tease.
It was a command.
Suddenly, every part of him was hyper-aware—her thighs brushing his, the way her chest rose against him, the heat between their hips almost meeting but staying just… out of reach.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
She exhaled slowly, letting her breath ripple down his neck.
This wasn’t foreplay.
This was power play.
Every second she stayed pressed against him without moving was a reminder:
She wasn’t withholding affection.
She was controlling the timeline.
And when she finally did move?
He wouldn’t be ready.
Because she already owned him—with nothing more than silence, stillness…
And that forbidden whisper: “not yet.”