– The Hand-Holding War
It started like every other evening you spent together — side by side on the patio of the upscale café, a pair of steaming mugs between you, the quiet hum of the city just far enough away to make this little bubble feel private.
Emma had claimed the seat next to yours instead of across from you, as usual. You knew why. She liked proximity. She liked making you aware of her.
Without a word, she slid her hand over yours on the table, her palm soft, cool, and deliberate. Her fingers laced with yours slowly, like she was tying a ribbon she didn’t plan on untying any time soon. At first, it seemed casual — just a friendly touch — but then her thumb started moving in lazy, deliberate circles against your skin.
“You tense up so easily,” she said, her voice dripping with that knowing drawl. “Let me help with that.”
You couldn’t help but notice the way her very thick, strong thighs were angled toward you, her knee brushing yours lightly at first… then more firmly, pressing until you could feel the solid curve of muscle beneath the smooth skin. Every shift of her legs seemed intentional, like she was reminding you of what they could do if you let them.
When you tried to shift slightly away to regain some space, her fingers tightened around yours. Her other hand rested on her own thigh, smoothing the fabric of her dress as if to make sure you noticed exactly how much it clung to her curves.
“You’re not wriggling out of this one, love,” she teased. “I’m winning tonight.”
“Winning what?” you asked, even though you already knew.
She smiled — slow, predatory, and far too pleased with herself.
“The hand-holding war, of course. Every second you keep your hand here is one step closer to you admitting you can’t resist me.”
Her knee nudged yours again, firmer this time, before she crossed her legs in a way that made her thick thighs flex, the motion entirely unnecessary for sitting but absolutely necessary for driving you crazy. The slight brush of her heel against your calf sealed the trap.
“Not officially mine…” she murmured, leaning close enough for her breath to warm your cheek, “…but you will be.”
The rest of the evening was a battle of wills, her fingers never once loosening their grip, her thigh never leaving yours. And the truth was… she was right. She was winning.