It wasn’t just a touch—it was a placement. She took his hand and pressed it flat against her chest, right over the steady thud beneath her skin. The warmth there was immediate, but it was the rhythm he noticed first.
Her heartbeat was fast—not wild, but deliberate, as if it was pacing itself for something to come. She didn’t break eye contact as she asked, quietly, “Can you keep up?”
The question wasn’t about speed. It was about matching her—her rhythm, her energy, her way of moving through the moment. His fingers flexed slightly against her, feeling the strength beneath the softness, the way each beat seemed to pull him deeper into her pace.
She didn’t move his hand away. She let it stay there, holding him to that intimate tempo, as though syncing them before anything else happened. The sound of his own breathing began to match hers, the heat between them rising without a single other touch.
Only when she felt his pulse align with hers did she take his hand and guide it elsewhere—still warm from where it had been, carrying the rhythm with it.
In that moment, he understood—keeping up with her wasn’t about chasing her. It was about letting her lead, and finding that the real pleasure was in following her pace.