It wasn’t a mistake. The fabric didn’t just happen to ride higher as she shifted in her seat. She watched his eyes drop for only a second before he looked away, but that second told her everything. The band of gold on his hand made him hesitant, and hesitation was the very thing she craved. For every inch of leg revealed, his silence grew heavier, not because he disapproved but because he was fighting the reaction she was teasing out of him.
She crossed her legs slowly, deliberately, knowing he could sense the movement even if he didn’t dare look again. That was the thrill—forcing him into the role of the guilty observer, a man bound by vows yet undone by something as simple as the line of her thigh. She wasn’t competing with his wife; she was competing with his conscience. Each time the skirt slid a little higher, she wondered if his resistance weakened, if he would reach for the glass of water a little too quickly just to mask his trembling hand.
The more he pretended to ignore her, the bolder she became. Every movement under the table was a silent challenge. When her knee brushed against his, she didn’t apologize, didn’t flinch. Instead, she held the contact, light but steady, as if waiting for him to pull away. He didn’t. That was the moment she knew—his wedding ring didn’t stop him, it only made the fire burn hotter. And she intended to feed it until the ring felt less like a barrier and more like a secret.