It started as a gentle guide—her fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist, leading his hand toward the curve of her waist. The warmth there was immediate, familiar, the kind of contact that feels safe yet electric. But she didn’t leave it there.
Her gaze stayed on his as she shifted his hand downward, slowly, deliberately, until the heat beneath his palm deepened. She didn’t rush; she wanted him to feel every inch of that journey, to notice the way her body subtly changed under his touch.
When his breath caught, she stopped—not to pull away, but to let the stillness speak. Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, as though reminding him he was exactly where she wanted him… but only for now.
Then, just as his fingers began to explore, she moved his hand again—slightly higher this time, to a place that left him wondering if she was leading him somewhere… or keeping him from it.
It was a game of proximity, of control wrapped in invitation. And he realized she wasn’t just letting him touch her—she was teaching him how she wanted to be touched. Slowly. With intent. Always aware that she was guiding the rhythm.
Sometimes, the real spark isn’t in where the hand ends up—it’s in the journey she makes you take to get there.