His palm curves lower along your back as you arch, the movement slow and deliberate, the warmth of skin through fabric registering as a quiet invitation he has no intention of ignoring.
"The angle you just chose tells me more than any coded signal could."
His fingers spread across the small of your back, steady but not pressing, letting the contact test the new boundary you opened.
"You want the room now, and I want to keep that hand exactly where it is until we reach the door. When we get there I will pour the first cup of tea and watch whether you still call me by name once the light is on your face."
His thumb traces once along your spine before stilling, a single clear mark of restraint.
