The refusal came sharp at first: “Don’t.” A single word, steady, meant to draw a line. He froze, lips inches from hers, his breath brushing her skin. But even as the word hung in the air, her body betrayed the command. Her chin lifted slightly, exposing the soft line of her neck to him, as if offering a different invitation.
He didn’t move right away. Instead, he studied her, patient enough to see the contradiction. Words said no, but posture whispered yes. When his lips finally touched the curve beneath her ear, she shivered, her protest dissolving into silence. She hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t allowed it aloud, but the way her body leaned in told him everything he needed to know. The tilt of her neck was not surrender—it was complicity disguised as hesitation.
Later, when she tried to remind him of her refusal, he only smiled, because he remembered how she had arched, how she had given him space without saying it. She had told him not to kiss her, but she had guided him somewhere far more intimate than her lips. And that, he realized, was where her real vulnerability lived.