He thought she needed help getting up—until she pulled him down with her. She’d been sitting on the edge of the couch, legs stretched out, when she sighed and held out her hand. “A little assistance?” she’d said, her voice soft, and he’d leaned in, ready to lift her. But her grip tightened, sudden and strong, and before he could react, he was falling.
He landed beside her, the breath knocked from his lungs, as she shifted to straddle his hips, her smile sharp now. “Got you,” she murmured, and he realized the “weakness” had been a trap. That sigh, that outstretched hand, the soft request—all designed to make him lean in, let his guard down, assume she needed saving.
She’d used his own chivalry against him, turning his instinct to help into an opening. His hands hovered awkwardly for a moment, then settled on her thighs, and he felt the strength in them, the way she held herself steady. This wasn’t about vulnerability. It was about power—knowing he’d never refuse a hand up, then using that to get exactly what she wanted. He should have seen it coming. The way she’d watched him all night, calculating, waiting for the right moment to strike.