The hook at the back of her dress took three tries—her fingers deliberately fumbling, as if she were in no rush to set the fabric free. Each brush of her knuckles against her spine sent a shiver through him, and when the dress finally slackened, she let it hang for a breath, the material pooling at her elbows like a second skin. Then she turned, her gaze sharp and unflinching, and lifted one leg, the hem of the dress riding up to reveal a flash of thigh before she swung it over his lap, settling with a soft thud that made the chair creak.
This wasn’t an invitation. It was a proclamation—this space is mine, written in the way her hips pressed into his, her hands braced on his shoulders, her knees digging gently into the arms of the chair as if staking a claim. He tried to speak, to say something clever, but she leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Don’t,” she murmured, and he fell silent.
The dress slipped the rest of the way, puddling on the floor, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the weight of her, the heat of her skin, the quiet certainty in the set of her jaw. She didn’t just occupy his lap—she possessed it, and in that moment, he was happy to let her.