His fingers tightened around her waist like he was taking charge.
He thought the grip would guide her. Move her. Make her follow.
But her body didn’t yield.
Instead, she laughed—low, almost teasing. A sound without mockery but full of warning.
Then she moved—without moving.
A subtle shift of weight. A roll of her hips that made his hands suddenly feel decorative. She let him hold her waist—but not to steer.
To feel what he couldn’t control.
She leaned into him slowly, letting his grip stay firm, but robbing it of all its power.
He was holding her—but she was driving the rhythm.
Every sway, every grind, every slow circle of her hips whispered: You may think you’re leading… but you’re just along for the ride.
His breath grew shallow. His hands didn’t move—couldn’t.
And still, she danced.
Not on him. But around him.
She didn’t break the grip. She owned it.
Because real dominance doesn’t always pull away.
Sometimes, it lets you think you’re in charge…
While you surrender—inch by inch—to her tempo.