It wasn’t the way she looked at him—it was the way she moved him. One moment they were standing, the next his knees bent, and he found himself sinking into the couch. She didn’t just sit beside him; she stood over him for a heartbeat longer, her shadow falling across his chest, her presence filling the space.
And then came the words—low, deliberate, almost teasing. “Don’t touch a thing.”
It was the kind of command that made his pulse jump. Not because he couldn’t touch her, but because it meant she was going to decide when—and how—he could. She leaned forward, just close enough that the warmth of her body brushed his skin, but not close enough to close the gap. Her fingers trailed over the back of the couch instead of him, a silent reminder that she was in control.
The room felt smaller, quieter, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to hear what might happen next. He wanted to reach out—instinctively, almost desperately—but her eyes stopped him before his hands even twitched.
She took her time, adjusting a strand of her hair, crossing her legs slowly, each motion deliberate. It wasn’t about rushing to the next moment—it was about making him feel every second of waiting.
And in that stillness, he realized something: sometimes, not touching can be far more intimate than touching. Because in the right hands, restraint isn’t about denial—it’s about building something that will be impossible to resist when she finally says “Now.”