She was quiet during dinner. Polite. Her laugh soft, her eyes downcast whenever he looked at her too long. There was a subtle elegance in her posture, the kind that made him think she was nervous. Timid, even.
So he was entirely unprepared for what happened next.
He sat down in the oversized armchair, halfway into a casual conversation about nothing. She followed him into the room—but didn’t take the other seat.
She turned, faced him directly, and without a word—sat.
Not beside him. On him.
She eased into his lap, her dress sliding higher with the motion, her body pressing down in slow, intimate contact. He froze.
“Comfortable?” she whispered—not because she needed to know, but because she wanted to hear his breath catch.
Then she leaned in closer. Her hands on his shoulders, her lips inches from his neck. She wasn’t shy. She was studying him. Waiting for the right moment to strike.
And when she moved her hips—just once, just enough—he realized he’d underestimated her entirely.
She hadn’t come to be courted.
She’d come to take her seat—and take him with it.