At first, he thought it was accidental. The press of her thigh against his under the table seemed too natural, too easily explained. He shifted slightly, expecting her to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she remained still, her thigh pressed firmly against his, radiating warmth that felt impossible to ignore. His fork trembled slightly in his hand, his body betraying what he tried so hard to conceal.
The conversation carried on, polite and effortless on the surface, but every second beneath the table was electric. She knew exactly what she was doing. Each moment she refused to move deepened the tension, transforming an innocent dinner into something charged with forbidden intimacy. He tried to focus on her words, but all he could feel was the heat of her body pressed to his, steady, deliberate, unwavering. She laughed at something he barely registered, her voice light and teasing, while her thigh remained where it was, reminding him that this was no accident.
Minutes stretched, and the pressure became unbearable. He wanted to pull away, to regain some semblance of control, but he didn’t. She had cornered him with a touch so subtle yet so commanding that he felt powerless to resist. Her eyes finally met his across the table, calm and unassuming, but the small spark in them betrayed her intent. She knew he was stiff, unsettled, undone by something as simple as her leg against his. And that was the point—she had turned stillness into seduction, restraint into power, leaving him aching not for release, but for more of her quiet, merciless closeness.