The hem of her skirt snagged on the wooden armrest, just enough to pull the fabric higher than usual. She didn’t rush to smooth it down. Instead, she let the moment stretch, tilting her head as if mildly inconvenienced, while her fingers moved deliberately.
He watched her hands first—slim fingers curling around the fabric, lifting it just enough to free it from the chair’s grip. But she didn’t pull it down right away. She glanced up at him, her eyes calm, as if to check whether he’d noticed. He had. And she knew it.
When she did adjust it, she did so slowly. Her fingertips brushed along her own thigh, tracing a path that seemed less about fixing a problem and more about guiding his gaze. It was casual enough to pass as innocent, yet deliberate enough to leave no doubt in his mind—it was for him.
Her voice kept flowing, discussing something entirely unrelated, but the rhythm of her hands contradicted her words. Each tug of fabric was unhurried, each movement an unspoken dare. He told himself to look away, but his eyes betrayed him.
Once the skirt was back in place, she smoothed the sides with both palms, her touch lingering just a second too long. The chair had released her skirt, but she had trapped his attention in its place. And as she sat back, that almost imperceptible lift of her brow made it clear—she had never been in a hurry to fix it.