She didn’t rush. That was the first thing he noticed—and the most dangerous thing about her. Most women, when they wanted something, moved quickly, as if speed could make desire less awkward. But not her. She stood there, perfectly still at first, her hands lightly brushing the fabric of her skirt as though she was smoothing out creases that didn’t exist. The way her eyes locked on him told him this wasn’t hesitation—it was calculation. Every second she held that silence, every fraction of an inch she leaned forward, was a deliberate choice meant to make him feel the weight of waiting.
He tried to say something, but his voice caught in his throat. She tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, as if she’d just read the thought he was trying to bury. Then—so slowly it felt like an eternity—she stepped closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the heat from her skin carried through the air between them. His heart was pounding, and she could hear it. He knew she could hear it.
Her fingers toyed with the edge of her sleeve, sliding the fabric just enough to expose the inside of her wrist. The pale skin there seemed impossibly soft, and she held it in his line of sight as if offering a preview of something far more dangerous. When she finally moved again, it was only to adjust the way the light caught her neckline—nothing revealing, but enough to shift his breathing. She wanted him to wonder, to imagine, to ache. And she wanted him to know she controlled how far his imagination would be allowed to go tonight.
He realized then that it wasn’t about whether she’d move closer, or touch him, or speak. The tension came from not knowing when—or if—she’d give him the thing his body was already begging for. And she was going to make sure he kept begging.