It began with a shift in her chair. She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, as if settling herself, and reached down to smooth the fabric over her knees. But the movement wasn’t rushed—it was deliberate, slow enough for his gaze to trace the path of her hands. She tilted her chin slightly, pretending not to notice, but her eyes—half-lidded and knowing—told a different story.
Her fingers lingered at the hem of her dress, pressing the fabric flat before sliding upward just enough to gather a fold. She adjusted again, this time leaning back, which drew his eyes to the curve of her hip. Every motion felt like it existed for his benefit, a silent dance performed in plain sight of a crowded room.
He tried to focus on the conversation they were having, but it was useless. The way she moved was saying more than her words ever could. She noticed his distraction—she wanted him to notice. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, and for a moment, she held still, letting the tension settle thick between them.
Then, without hurry, she smoothed her dress one last time, as if sealing away whatever she’d just revealed. But the damage was done—he’d seen it, and she knew he’d think about that moment long after the night ended.