Ashnaa
Favoured Frenzy
The jazz hummed low beneath the crystal chandeliers, wrapping the rooftop lounge in a velvet kind of intimacy. I swirled the last sip of red wine in my glass, pretending to study the city lights while feeling him watch me from across the table.
There’s a particular danger in being seen by someone who notices too much.
Ethan had that habit. The slow gaze. The patient smile. The maddening confidence of a man who never rushed anything worth having.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m listening.”
“To the music?”
“To you trying to figure me out.”
His laugh was soft, warm enough to slip under my skin. At thirty, I had mastered elegance like armor—tailored dresses, measured words, composed expressions. Men admired me often, desired me easily, but very few unsettled me. Ethan did it effortlessly.
The evening breeze brushed against my bare shoulders, carrying the scent of amber and rain from somewhere far below. He loosened the top button of his shirt, and my eyes betrayed me for half a second.
Of course, he noticed.
“That look,” he murmured.
“What look?”
“The one you give right before you pretend you’re not attracted to me.”
I should have rolled my eyes. Instead, I smiled into my wine glass.
“You’re incredibly sure of yourself.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Just sure of this.”
The air shifted.
A pause stretched between us—not awkward, not uncertain. Anticipation has its own language, and suddenly we were speaking it fluently.
When we left the lounge, the city had softened into midnight. The driver waited downstairs, but neither of us moved toward him immediately. We stood beneath the golden lights outside the hotel entrance while taxis slid through rain-slick streets.
Too close now.
Close enough for me to catch traces of cedar on his skin. Close enough to notice the slight roughness in his voice whenever he looked directly at my mouth.
“You should go home,” I whispered, though I made no attempt to step away.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
His hand reached for mine slowly, giving me every opportunity to refuse. I didn’t. His fingers wrapped around mine with calm certainty, sending warmth all the way up my arm.
God, I had missed this.
Not desire. Desire was easy.
This was tension sharpened by restraint. The exquisite ache of wondering exactly how his mouth would feel against mine while knowing he was wondering the same thing.
My pulse stumbled when he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. Such a simple gesture, yet unbearably intimate.
“You’re dangerous,” I said softly.
His eyes darkened. “Only around you.”
The rain began lightly then, misting against my skin. He stepped closer instinctively, one hand settling at my waist. I could feel the heat of him even through silk. Every nerve in my body turned suddenly aware.
My breath caught as his forehead nearly touched mine.
Almost.
His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there long enough to make me dizzy. I wanted that kiss with a kind of elegant desperation I would never confess aloud.
But the beauty of a nearly stolen moment is the unbearable sweetness of waiting.
So instead of kissing me, he smiled faintly against the corner of my mouth and whispered, “Next time.”
And somehow, that was even more intoxicating.
