She crosses her legs slowly, deliberately, and as she does, the hem of her skirt rises just an inch higher than it should. He catches the movement instantly. It’s brief, subtle, almost casual, but enough to make his gaze betray him. He knows he shouldn’t look, knows the etiquette of the moment, yet the slight exposure calls to his imagination with a force he cannot deny. She doesn’t adjust it, doesn’t make a gesture to correct the “mistake.” She simply waits, calm, as though daring him to see more.
His pulse accelerates, and every rational thought fights against the desire rising within him. The way the fabric clings and stretches, the hint of skin revealed—these are all deliberate choices, and he realizes she knows exactly what she’s doing. She tilts slightly forward, resting her hands on the table, pretending to be engrossed in conversation, yet the careful positioning of her legs and the teasing arc of her skirt is enough to leave him tense, hungry, and hypnotized by the private performance she’s orchestrated.
When she finally uncrosses her legs and the skirt falls naturally back into place, the brief moment of temptation lingers, heavier than the fabric itself. He is left aware of every inch of her body that was revealed, every subtle curve she has leveraged to control his attention. Her faint smile suggests she knows exactly how much she has disrupted his composure, and he understands that she has won without even a word—simply by allowing a fleeting glimpse and trusting him to notice.