It wasn’t the words she said—it was the way she shifted.
He noticed it the moment she changed position: the gentle sway of her hips, the almost deliberate slowness as her legs crossed under the table. The hem of her dress didn’t ride up by accident. No, it was a silent invitation dressed as elegance.
The fabric clung to her thigh just long enough to catch the soft glow of the overhead light, revealing the smooth line of skin that hadn’t been visible moments before. Not too much. Just enough to make him lose track of what he was saying.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t need to.
She knew what it was doing to him—the way his breath caught ever so slightly, the way his voice dropped when he tried to focus. Her eyes stayed on her wine glass, fingers trailing its rim with lazy attention, but everything about her posture said she was listening to him—and to his silence.
Some women speak with words. She didn’t have to.
Her legs shifted again, not uncrossing, but tightening. The muscle in her calf flexed. The fabric tugged. Another inch of skin appeared.
It wasn’t clumsy. It wasn’t flirty.
It was precision.
And in that moment, she had the room. The man across from her no longer remembered what he’d ordered. He only knew he wanted to see what came next—and whether she’d give him more… or take even that away.