The booth was too quiet now.
She could hear his breathing measured, but each exhale thicker than the last. It felt like he was staring through the grille, burning the image of her into his mind.
Then there was movement, a faint rustle of fabric, the sound of weight shifting on wood.
Her pulse skipped for a bit.
Through a narrow gap where the curtain didn’t quite meet the wall, a hand slipped through it.
Not tentative and not shy. His knuckles grazed her knee.
She froze, the touch feather-light but electrifying.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured. His voice was different now deeper and unfiltered.
“I shouldn’t be shaking, I came to confess,” she whispered, even as her body leaned toward the heat of his palm.
His fingers smoothed up the length of her thigh, slow enough to make every inc
