The Pause

image courtesy: singulart

I sneak a glance across the room at him. In the harsh overhead light, his eyes catch mine, and they’re wild. Hungry. Something in the way his pupils dilate, and the slight parting of his lips. My breath catches. My heart skips. I know what usually follows. And I want that pull. Fiercely. But there’s that other part of me, the one that whispers: run.

When he steps closer, the air shifts. His cologne, dark, warm, a little reckless, wraps around me like a dare. My skin tightens. And then his hand, feather‑light at first, slides along my forearm, makes a path of heat, and I shiver. Not from cold. My body remembers. Every curve, every flicker of want, every moan that’s already burned itself into memory.

Even before we touch for real, I feel it, that familiar pang, the pull of flesh, the knit of skin and breath and sound. I shift closer, eyes half‑lidded. My pulse pounds and I can almost taste his lips, almost feel the press of him. I close my eyes. I could let it happen. I could melt into want and heat and rawness.

Then...smooth, slow, he says it: “Let’s pause.”

Pause. Two syllables. Simple. But it hits me like ice. My body clenches. My mind jolts awake. Because he’s good. Too good. Attentive. Precise. He knows me. Knows what I like. Knows where to slide his fingers, when to whisper my name, when to push me over the edge... and I hush. Not because I’m embarrassed. Because I’m scared. Scared of what comes after all that heat. Scared of wanting, needing, craving....more than just this moment.

I lean back. Breathe. Let his fingers drift away slowly. We don’t speak. The silence is heavy, intimate. He watches me like I’m fragile glass, like I might shatter at any second. And somewhere deep inside I know: That’s exactly what he’s protecting me from. Protecting us from.

We don’t go through with it. But we stay close. Laughter spills, soft and nervous, as I brush my fingers against his hand, almost accidental, but electric. The air between us crackles with everything unsaid: want, restraint, danger, delight.

And in that pause I feel something strange: power. Not from him. From me. From the quiet thrum inside my chest. I taste my control. I taste the ache of held‑back desire. I feel the pulse of memories,  of fast, hungry nights, whispered names, shared heat, and I realize: it’s not gone. The fire isn’t gone. It’s just held, biding time.

Then I picture the nights to come: soft smiles, lingering glances, fingertips brushing thighs under the table, laughter just a breath away from moans. All the electricity, without the crash. I think about boundaries, about what I want, and what I’m not ready for. I think about attachment, about trust, about whether I want the wild heat to settle into something deeper. Because sex is easy. Trust isn’t.

His eyes find mine. Again. That same wild glint. I stand up slowly, brushing off a lock of hair from my face. I keep a half smile. I lean in, press a light kiss near his ear, not a promise, but a tease. A soft warning.

I walk away. My pulse still racing. My mind humming. The room stays still, heavy with what could have been. And underneath it all, I carry the heat, the pang, and the choice.

Because I paused. Because I want to write this story in my own way: on my own terms.