He wasn’t sure what drew him to her at first—the silver in her hair, the calm in her voice, or the way she didn’t try to impress anyone in the room. She simply sat, poised, legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on her lap. Her eyes had that knowing sparkle, the kind you only earn by watching men try too hard for too long.
He sat across from her in the quiet lounge, sipping his drink and pretending not to notice the way her dress clung to her curves. She looked like someone’s elegant aunt. But then… she moved.
With one slow shift, she uncrossed her legs, stretching them out, the hem of her dress sliding just a breath higher. It wasn’t accidental—it was too smooth, too well-timed. He caught the glimpse she allowed. Just enough to stir the air between them.
She let the silence sit there. Let him stew in it. Then crossed her legs again, this time the other way—deliberate, precise, as if she knew exactly where his eyes would land.
He cleared his throat, unsure whether to speak or keep watching. She smiled faintly, barely moving her lips. Not a word, just that subtle look of amusement—like she was testing how much tension he could bear before breaking.
It was clear she’d done this before. This wasn’t a game for her—it was a language, and she was fluent.