You just had to look at her face to realise she was wet.

It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else in the room. But I could see it — in the way her breathing had changed, in the way her pupils had widened, in the way her thighs pressed together like she was trying to contain something that had already taken over.

There was a charged silence between us.

Slowly, deliberately, I stepped closer. My hand slid down from her waist, fingers tracing the curve of her hip. I gave her time — a pause, a breath — space to step back.

She didn’t.

As I slid my hand into her knickers, I could feel how wet she was.

The heat. The unmistakable evidence of how much she wanted this.

Her body reacted instantly — a sharp inhale, her nails digging into my shoulders, her forehead resting against mine as if the contact grounded her. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

But I did.

“Tell me.”

Her lips brushed my ear, voice unsteady but certain.

“I want you.”

And that was it — not just the touch, not just the heat, but the choice. The way she leaned into it. The way she pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.

The tension didn’t explode.

It deepened.

And that slow burn?

That was far more dangerous.