The conversation was light, teasing, entirely ordinary—or so it seemed. But beneath the table, her hand moved with intention. Her fingers brushed his thigh, feather-light, tracing a path that lingered longer than casual contact would allow. She didn’t rush, didn’t grip, but the deliberate drag of her nails over his pants spoke a language he couldn’t ignore.
He froze mid-sentence, aware of the contact even before he looked. Her hand didn’t stay still, but slid slowly, brushing higher, then retreating, teasing him with the awareness of her touch without ever breaking the rhythm. The faint warmth of her skin pressed against him, subtle yet electrifying.
Her eyes were fixed on him, a quiet, commanding gaze that made it impossible to look anywhere else. She smirked faintly as he shifted, betraying the tension she was creating, fully aware of how aware he had become. Each glide of her fingers was calculated to spark a reaction without ever forcing it. He could feel his own restraint fraying with every subtle movement she made.
The teasing didn’t stop at the touch. The slight pressure of her hand, the barely perceptible movement of her arm under the table, and the slow, deliberate smile on her lips told him everything he needed to know—she was in control. And as much as he wanted to pull away, he found himself leaning subtly closer, drawn into her game of anticipation and restraint.