She brought him tea—then sat on his lap without saying a word. The porcelain mug steamed in his hands, the warmth seeping into his palms, when she settled onto him, thighs bracketing his hips. No warning, no question, just the soft press of her weight and the scent of jasmine in her hair. The tea sloshed slightly, but he didn’t care.
He’d been expecting thanks, maybe a shy smile, the usual dance of polite distance. Instead, she’d crossed the room like she owned it, her movements unhurried, and claimed his lap as if it were always meant to be hers. Her arms looped around his neck, not tight but steady, and she rested her cheek against his shoulder, the mug still in his hands now trapped between their bodies.
This wasn’t neediness—it was assertion. She’d skipped the small talk, the pretense of hesitation, and gone straight for what she wanted. He felt the tension in her legs, the way she’d positioned herself to stay, and realized the tea was just a prop. A reason to cross the room, a distraction to lower his guard before she made her move.
When he finally set the mug aside, careful not to jostle her, his hands found her waist. She didn’t look up, but her lips brushed his neck, a faint sigh escaping her. Words felt unnecessary now. She’d made her point: some wants don’t require permission. They just require presence.