He leaned in for her lips.
She leaned back—just an inch.
Not rejection. Not hesitation. Just precision.
Then her hands slid behind his neck, and she pulled him in—not fast, not frantic. Just enough.
But his lips never met hers.
She turned her head at the last second, brushing his mouth past her cheek, straight into the hollow of her collarbone.
It was deliberate.
She didn’t want a kiss.
She wanted control.
Most men think closeness means access. They mistake proximity for permission. But she knew how to draw him in—not to give him more—but to test whether he could handle less.
She whispered something he didn’t catch.
Or maybe it was just her breath.
It was hot against his skin, but it didn’t beg. It warned.
She moved her hips—not away, but just enough to remind him: this dance is mine.
And in that suspended moment—where his mouth was near, his hands ready, his heart pounding—he realized:
She didn’t pull him closer because she was giving in.
She pulled him closer to see if he’d hold still.
Because that’s where the real tension lives—not in the act.
But in the almost.