It was never about the blouse.
She had worn it slightly open all night—just enough to keep his thoughts distracted, his words fumbling, his confidence unraveling.
And now, as he knelt before her, still flushed and trembling from the way she’d held him down with nothing but her voice and presence, she began to button it… slowly.
He reached for her wrist.
“No,” she said, softly. “We’re done now.”
“But—” His voice cracked. He didn’t even know what he was asking for anymore. Her touch? Her permission? A second chance?
She fastened another button, the fabric drawing together, sealing away the heat he still felt radiating from her skin.
“You had your moment,” she said, not cruel, just sure. “You didn’t know what to do with it.”
His lips parted, trying to form an apology—or maybe a plea. But she wasn’t looking at him anymore.
Her fingers moved with elegance, composure. Each button undone had been a tease; each button fastened now felt like a dismissal. And yet… he couldn’t look away.
He had begged, yes. But she hadn’t given in.
Because it was never about rewarding him.
It was about watching him want.
And then watching him not get.
Her final button clicked into place.
She looked down at him then, not with pity—but with decision.
“You think you’re the only one left aching?” she asked. “That’s cute.”
She stepped away, and with each step, he realized something deeper than lust was unspooling in him.
She hadn’t just finished dressing.
She had finished him.