Her fingers grazed the leather, slow, like she was testing the texture, before wrapping loosely around the buckle. He tensed, expecting the metallic click of release, the familiar slide of leather through loops. But she just held it, her thumb brushing the cold metal, her gaze locked on his, as if the belt itself was a language she was translating.
This wasn’t foreplay. It was a pause—weighted, deliberate—between desire and action. Unbuckling would be easy, a rush, a step toward something inevitable. But holding it? That was control. It said I could, I want to, but we’re not there yet. His breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and she smiled, the kind of smile that knows exactly what it’s doing.
She’d always been better at the in-between moments than he was. He chased the end; she savored the before. Her fingers on his belt, not undoing but holding, was a lesson: anticipation is sharper than satisfaction, the wait more thrilling than the rush.
When she finally let go, her hand sliding up to rest on his chest, the belt felt heavier, charged with all the things they hadn’t done yet. “Soon,” she murmured, and he nodded, because he knew. Some touches aren’t about what they do—they’re about what they promise.