It began with a small comment—“Your tie’s crooked.”
Innocent words, spoken lightly, as though nothing could be more ordinary. But when she leaned forward, her hand lifting to touch the knot at his throat, the air between them changed.
Her fingers moved with a practiced ease, brushing against the fabric, adjusting, tightening. Yet it wasn’t the correction that stole his breath—it was the pace. She tugged, smoothed, lingered, each motion drawn out just enough to feel deliberate. The back of her knuckles grazed his skin, cool at first, then warming as she remained close.
He swallowed, his throat tightening under the gentle pressure of her fingers. She was close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, soft, and undeniably mature. It wrapped around him, filling the small space between them, making it harder to think of the tie as the only thing being adjusted.
Her eyes lifted once, catching his, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she let her gaze hold him, steady and unreadable, while her fingers tugged again—slower this time, sliding along the silk as though savoring the texture. He could feel her breath now, warm against his chin, each exhale brushing him with an intimacy that words could never match.
The tie was already straight, already perfect, but she continued, smoothing the collar, pressing lightly against his chest. Her palm stayed there a heartbeat longer than necessary, her touch firm yet tender. He wondered if she could feel the rhythm of his pulse beneath her hand, betraying the stillness he tried to maintain.
He wanted to step back, to laugh it off, to reduce the moment to something ordinary. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood frozen, caught in the quiet dominance of her slow, deliberate touch.
Finally, she lowered her hand, her fingers brushing against his shirt buttons before retreating. “Better,” she murmured, her voice low, smooth, with an edge that felt more like possession than approval.
But as she stepped back, he realized it wasn’t the tie she had straightened—it was him. And the memory of her fingers, slow and deliberate at his throat, clung to him long after she let go.