Her hand moved with the gentleness of someone who had lived long enough to disguise boldness as care. She reached out, fingers brushing along his cheek as though wiping away a trace of dust. The touch lingered longer than necessary, warm, deliberate, tracing the edge of his jaw.
He stilled, caught off guard by the intimacy in such a simple gesture. She should have pulled her hand back, should have let the moment fade into nothing. But instead, her palm lingered against his face, her thumb brushing lightly across his skin in a caress that spoke louder than words.
His breath caught. He searched her eyes for explanation, but what he found there was not apology—it was intent. She knew what she was doing. The softness of her smile carried no innocence, only quiet daring.
Then her hand moved. Slowly, deliberately, it drifted lower, trailing from his jaw to the curve of his neck. His pulse leapt beneath her fingertips, betraying him. She felt it, of course she did. Her lips curved further, as though the rhythm of his heartbeat was the answer she had been searching for.
“You’re warm,” she murmured, her voice low, intimate.
He swallowed hard, struggling to steady himself. He should have stepped back, should have broken free from the weight of her hand. But instead, he stood rooted to the spot, unable to will himself away from the pull of her touch.
Her fingers continued downward, grazing the edge of his collar, brushing against the fabric as though tempted to slip beneath. Every inch she moved deepened the storm inside him—guilt colliding with desire, restraint crumbling beneath the weight of temptation.
His own hand twitched at his side, fighting the instinct to catch hers, to stop her before she went too far. But another instinct, darker and stronger, urged him to let her continue. To see just how far she intended to go.
“You shouldn’t,” he whispered, though the weakness in his voice betrayed how much he wanted her to.
“Perhaps,” she answered softly, her hand still pressing against the rapid beat of his heart. “But you don’t want me to stop, do you?”
The truth hung between them, heavy and undeniable. He didn’t answer, couldn’t. His silence spoke louder than any denial ever could.
Her touch remained—too low, too intimate, too dangerous. And yet, when her eyes searched his, when her hand rested just where it shouldn’t, he realized something terrifying.
The danger wasn’t in her hand drifting lower.
The danger was in how desperately he wanted it to keep going.