He’d leaned back, expecting the familiar rhythm—the slow slip of straps, the rustle of fabric hitting the floor—and let his gaze linger, warm and eager. But she stood still, her arms crossed, a faint smile playing at her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Turn around,” she said, her voice calm, and his brow furrowed. Why? he wanted to ask, but something in her tone made him obey, his back pressing against the cool wall as he faced the window.
“Listen,” she said, and he strained—for the sound of a zipper, a sigh, anything to signal she was giving him what he wanted. Instead, he heard the soft pad of her feet approaching, the rustle of her own clothes as she moved closer. Then nothing. No fabric dropping, no skin brushing his. Just her presence, close enough that he could smell her perfume, and the slow, steady beat of his own heart.
This wasn’t defiance. It was a reset. He’d assumed the night was for his pleasure, that her undressing was a performance for him to watch. But turning him around? Making him listen instead of look? It was a reminder: desire isn’t a one-way show. It’s a conversation, and she was choosing the language.
“Now,” she said, and he turned, slow, to find her still fully dressed, but her eyes burning. “Better,” she murmured, and he understood. He’d wanted to watch. She wanted him to anticipate. And in that pause, that silence, he’d learned to crave the sound of her voice more than the sight of her skin.