The room was cool against my skin, carrying the faint scent of rain through the open window. Somewhere outside, water tapped steadily against the glass. He stood close enough that I could feel the warmth of him without being touched. His gaze held mine.
Then his hand settled at my waist. His palm was warm through the thin fabric of my clothes, his fingertips pressing just firmly enough to make me aware of every inch of contact. I drew in a slow breath. He smelled faintly of aftershave and clean skin. “You’re trembling,” he murmured. The words sent another shiver through me. His thumb moved once, slowly, along my waist. The room seemed suddenly quieter—the rain softer, the air warmer, my heartbeat louder. “Still want this?”
I nodded. He leaned closer, and his breath brushed my cheek, warm against the cool air. His lips hovered a fraction from mine, close enough that anticipation became almost unbearable. Then he kissed me. Slowly.
Soft at first, barely more than a promise, before lingering just long enough to leave me wanting more. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. I could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint curve of his smile. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.