A woman like her doesn’t touch your chest by accident.
She does it with purpose—slow, steady, unhurried—because she wants to feel the exact moment your breath stumbles. And she notices it. She always notices it.
Her palm starts flat against your shirt, warm through the fabric.
Then she begins to drift upward… just a few inches at first.
She’s not groping, not grabbing, not even pretending to be subtle.
She’s testing you—studying the way your ribcage expands, the slight tremor under your sternum, the heat building beneath your skin.
Older women know what a man looks like when he wants to keep his composure.
And they know exactly how to take that composure apart.
Her fingers lightly trace the edge of your collarbone.
Her thumb presses gently into your chest like she’s marking a spot only she’s allowed to claim.
And her body leans close enough that the soft brush of her blouse grazes your arm each time she shifts.
That tiny contact—barely a whisper of fabric—makes your heartbeat stumble harder than her hand does.
She feels that too.
She doesn’t need you to say anything.
Your body already answered her.
What she loves most is that she can read your reactions like a silent script—
the way your shoulders square for a second,
the way you inhale a little too slowly,
the way you look down at her hand and then right back into her eyes,
as if asking Is this really happening?
And her smirk, barely there, gives you the answer:
Yes.
And she’s not done yet.
To her, sliding her palm across your chest isn’t flirting—
it’s control disguised as tenderness.
