I swallowed, heart racing.
My body reacted before I could decide how I felt about it. Heat slid low in my belly. My breath shallowed. I became acutely aware of the space between my thighs, the press of my clothes against my skin.
This isn’t for you, I told myself.
And yet, I didn’t leave.
I drifted deeper into the room, moving carefully, like I might break the spell if I rushed. I found a wall and leaned against it, grounding myself in the cool brick. From here, I could observe without being absorbed.
People kissed. People touched. People watched each other being touched.
Consent lived in the air—spoken in glances, in hands that paused and waited, in mouths that hovered until invited closer.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t desperate.
It was intentional.
I felt exposed in my clothes. Overdressed. Too contained.
A woman caught my eye from across the room—dark hair, bare shoulders, lips swollen from kissing. She smiled at me, slow and knowing, then turned back to the man beneath her.
No invitation. No pressure.
Just acknowledgment.
My chest tightened.
I didn’t realize I was breathing differently until I noticed how loud it sounded in my ears.
“First time?”
The voice came from beside me.
I startled, turning.
A woman stood there holding a glass of wine, dressed in black silk that clung like a second skin. She looked amused, not predatory. Curious.
“Yes,” I admitted, and surprised myself with the honesty.
She nodded. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“I know,” I said.
Her gaze flicked briefly to where my fingers gripped my coat sleeve. “You’re doing plenty already.”
My cheeks warmed.
She smiled and moved away, leaving me alone with that truth.
I stayed longer than I meant to.
Long enough for the initial shock to fade into something else. Something quieter. More dangerous.
Awareness.
Of bodies. Of reactions. Of the way watching could feel intimate without being participatory.
Of how desire didn’t always need an outlet to exist.
