There’s something about proximity — that small, forbidden space between two people who are not supposed to cross a line, yet find themselves standing at its edge.
He could feel it before he realized it: her warmth, the scent of her hair, the subtle sweetness that seemed to hover in the air when she leaned closer to speak.
She didn’t touch him — not exactly. But her breath brushed the side of his cheek, and for a moment, his mind emptied. The room, the noise, even the conversation — all faded, as if someone had turned down the world’s volume.
Her voice came low, deliberate. She wasn’t saying anything scandalous, just something about the wine, about the lighting — but the tone carried a rhythm, a quiet pulse that drew him closer without his consent. He wanted to lean back, to recover his composure, but the truth was, he didn’t want to.
She lingered there, close enough that every word vibrated through the space between them. His fingers tightened around his glass. The air grew heavier, slower.
And when she finally pulled back — slowly, deliberately — he realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out with a shaky laugh, trying to remember what she’d just said.
But she knew. Women like her always know. They don’t need to touch a man to make him feel undone; they just have to lean close enough for him to imagine what would happen if they didn’t stop there.