Her eyes caught up in his, tugging from the gut and expanding. He stepped in one smooth movement, with no doubt or hesitation. They twisted around each other, staying close and pulling from the same strings, but not touching. Their eyes were their only contact point. His hand might glance close to her ribs, her knuckles might caress the air by his cheek, but they swirled separately in their dance. Puffs of breath replaced lips on lips. Scratches never marred skin and bruises formed only in the heavy space between them, but each smoothly aborted touch crashed with the heady weight of longing and lust that could rip skin from sinew in a desire to be touching the other’s soul.