Spellbound.
977 Words
Arc froze at the contact. The warmth of her palms seeped through the fabric, grounding him even as his senses began to blur. She was close now — too close — her breath mingling with his, her body pressing lightly against his chest. He could feel the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing, the brush of her curves against him, deliberate and unhurried.
Her fingers shifted, sliding downward until they found his hands — his knuckles tightening slightly around the glass he still held. Her touch lingered there, soft but firm, the pads of her fingers brushing against his in a teasing whisper that sent a sharp current up his spine.
Without breaking the silent tension, she guided the glass from his hand. Her gaze flicked to it for only a second before she raised it to her lips, her eyes never leaving his as she drank the remaining champagne he hadn’t finished. The gesture was intimate, disarming — a quiet claim.
When she lowered the glass, her tongue traced her bottom lip, catching the last drop of liquid. Then she leaned closer, voice low, almost a murmur against his skin.
“You shouldn’t leave things half done, Arc,” she said, the words silk and challenge intertwined.
Her breath was warm, her tone playful but laced with something else — something darker. And though he wanted to answer, to say something that might break the spell she was weaving, he found that he couldn’t.
All he could do was stand there, heart racing, as Raine’s fingers drifted slowly from the empty glass to his jaw, her touch so light it almost felt like a promise — or a warning.
Spellbound — that was the only word that fit. Arc couldn’t tear his eyes from her, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe properly as Raine moved with that same deliberate grace she always carried, like every step she took was part of some quiet symphony only she could hear. He watched her pick up the glass he had just used, her fingers brushing against its rim before she set it down beside hers on the bedside table. The soft clink of glass meeting glass seemed to mark the beginning of something dangerous.
Then she turned to him again, the soft rustle of her dress filling the still air. Her movements were slow, fluid — the kind that demanded attention. By the time she stood before him again, Arc felt as though the world had shrunk to the space between them.
Her hands rose, fingers grazing his collarbone before wrapping around the back of his neck. She drew him closer, her touch featherlight but commanding, her thumbs tracing idle circles at the base of his skull. The scent of her — rain, champagne, and something faintly sweet — clouded his senses. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she spoke.
“Tell me, Arc,” she whispered, her tone soft but heavy with purpose, “when did you fall in love with me?”
Her words brushed against him like silk, but beneath the softness was something sharp — a blade hidden in velvet. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he tried to form a reply, but her hands were distracting — too much. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, slow, possessive, her nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver.
He parted his lips to answer, but she didn’t care to hear it — not really. Her gaze was fixed on him, eyes dark and unreadable. As his mouth opened, her expression shifted, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. She didn’t pull away, didn’t stop the tender assault of her fingers through his hair.
Inside, Raine’s thoughts were a whirlpool of control and contempt. Men. Always so predictable. They claimed to love, to protect, to care — yet, in the end, they all looked at her the same way. Like she was a prize to be won, a thing to possess. The thought alone made something flicker in her eyes — not sadness, not anger, but something that hovered dangerously close to both.
Her hands began to drift downward, from his neck to the front of his chest, tracing the line of his shirt buttons one by one. She didn’t rush — she wanted him to feel every second of it, every brush of her fingers against his skin.
Arc stood frozen as she unfastened the first button. Then the second. The third. Each small click sounded louder in the silence than it should have. Her fingers were cool, deliberate, grazing his bare skin every time another layer of fabric fell open. The heat in the room seemed to rise with every inch of his chest she revealed.
“It was in high school, wasn’t it?” she asked again, though her tone was almost teasing now — mocking, even. “When I was just that quiet, awkward girl you always followed around…”
She tilted her head, pretending to ponder the thought as the final button slipped loose. Her hands lingered at the base of his abdomen, the faintest brush of her fingertips tracing his skin. A slow, measured caress that made his breath hitch.
Her touch wasn’t tender — it was possessive. She looked up at him through her lashes, her smile ghosting across her lips, calm and devastating. “You must have thought you could save me then too,” she murmured, her voice low, the edge of bitterness hidden behind its softness.
Her fingers trailed lightly along his abs, every movement deliberate — both an invitation and a warning.
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