It began with a timer.
Maxie eyed the glittering hourglass on the bedside table. The grains inside shimmered gold, falling at an almost arrogant pace. Beside it stood Professor Aurelia Hart, a retired burlesque star turned sensual performance coach. Clad in a velvet robe that somehow managed to be more naked than nudity, she tapped the glass with a manicured nail.
"Five minutes," she said. "That's all the time you have—to not touch. Just tease. Nothing more."
Maxie blinked. "And after five minutes?"
"Then you may begin again," Aurelia smiled. "But only if your partner begs properly."
The theme of the workshop was "The Tease: An Erotic Slow Burn." And it was aptly named. Maxie and the other students were paired up and handed tools: ice cubes, silk feathers, scented oils, and what appeared to be a tassel meant for a chandelier but had since found greater purpose.
Maxie was partnered with Cassian, a poet who smelled of cedarwood and rebellion. His voice alone could make toast moan. His presence? A sensual migraine. The good kind.
They knelt on velvet cushions in front of each other, close enough to feel each other's breath but forbidden from touching. Not until the timer allowed.
"You first," Cassian whispered, offering Maxie a silk ribbon.
She accepted, and with a slow exhale, dragged the ribbon down the line of his throat—not touching, just hovering. His Adam's apple bobbed.
The room filled with similar tortures: gasps, whimpers, stifled moans. One woman dropped an ice cube down her partner's back and the man convulsed like he'd seen God wearing lace.
Maxie ran the ribbon lower, letting it dangle over Cassian's chest like a comet of suggestion. She traced circles in the air. Cassian squirmed. She grazed the edge of his lower lip with her breath. He whimpered.
The hourglass emptied.
"Switch!" Aurelia called.
Now it was Cassian's turn.
He didn't speak. Just smiled.
First, he blindfolded Maxie. Not with cloth, but with scent. A dab of oil on her pulse points—jasmine and temptation. Then he used his voice.
"You look like poetry," he murmured. "But I plan to read you like smut."
Maxie's knees wobbled.
He didn't touch her. He narrated what he would do. Slowly. Wickedly. Descriptively. She groaned, half from frustration, half from imagination. Every word was a brushstroke on her skin.
At one point, he whispered so close to her ear that her earlobe twitched in anticipation. "Still haven't touched you," he said.
"You're evil," she hissed.
He chuckled. "I'm patient."
Time reset. Teasing resumed. By the third round, half the class was panting. Aurelia had to hose down one of the couples with prosecco.
Then came the final test: Tease a stranger from across the room.
Maxie chose a tall redhead in sheer lace and arched an eyebrow. She lifted her glass, ran her tongue slowly along the rim, and winked.
The woman fainted.
Maxie won the golden feather.
As the class disbanded in a haze of unmet desire and excessive lubrication, Cassian approached her again.
"Dinner?" he asked.
She smirked. "Only if you don't touch me for the first course."
He leaned in. "Can I touch you with metaphors?"
"Touch me with an epic," she whispered.
They left hand-in-hand—but didn't hold hands. Just almost.
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Journal Entry:
> Step Nineteen: I now understand how a single breath can cause a small apocalypse in someone's pants.
I didn't technically break any rules, but Cassian may need therapy.
Also, I won a golden feather. Don't ask where I keep it.