The sound of her laugh was already disarming, but it was the movement that followed that undid him. She leaned forward, her body loose with amusement, and in that unguarded moment she tilted her hips just slightly—enough that he could feel the subtle press of her body against his. It wasn’t forceful, it wasn’t clumsy. It was intentional, carefully measured, hidden beneath the mask of lightheartedness.
He noticed immediately. The warmth of her pressed lightly into him, a pressure that didn’t belong to mere coincidence. His mind caught on it, even as her laughter filled the space. She was close, closer than she needed to be, and her hips didn’t shift back when the laugh faded. She held there, as though daring him to acknowledge the contact, to see it for what it was.
Her laughter softened, tapering into a smile, but the weight of her body didn’t retreat. The subtle press remained, growing heavier with each second of silence. He could feel the curve of her hips molded near his, the faintest sway as she adjusted to stay close. It wasn’t the kind of touch one could mistake. It was deliberate, hidden in plain sight, shielded by the casual act of laughter.
His chest tightened. He wondered if she could feel his breath shift, if she noticed the way his posture stiffened at her proximity. Of course she noticed. That was the point. She wanted him to be aware, to feel her closeness every bit as much as she felt his reaction. The humor that had sparked her laugh faded into something quieter, more dangerous—a silence that crackled with awareness.
When she finally leaned back, it was with agonizing slowness. The press of her hips withdrew, leaving behind only the ghost of her touch. He wanted her to laugh again, just so he could feel it once more. Because now he knew: her laughter wasn’t just sound. It was an excuse, a cover, a way to lean closer and press into him without ever admitting that’s what she was doing.