He walked in with confidence—shoulders square, grin easy, eyes scanning her like he’d already won. He’d been with women like her before. Or so he thought.
But she didn’t flinch at his touch. She didn’t blush at his compliments. In fact, she said very little at all. Just smiled. Slowly.
And when she finally stood and walked toward him, every step was deliberate, like she was pacing out a lesson. She didn’t rush. She didn’t flirt. She reached for the hem of his shirt, not hers.
“Sit,” she said softly.
He did.
She didn’t straddle him. She didn’t even sit on his lap. She simply stood between his knees, hands resting on his shoulders, holding him in place—not with force, but with command.
And then, without warning, she leaned in—lips not on his mouth, but just beside his ear.
“You’ve had a lot of women touch you,” she said. “But how many have made you beg before you were even kissed?”
He swallowed.
She smiled again—this time with something darker behind it. And as her fingers slipped under his belt—not pulling, just resting—he understood: this wasn’t about pleasure. It was about power.
And he wasn’t in charge anymore.