She looked gentle when he first saw her—soft smile, silver strands tucked neatly behind her ears. The kind of woman who poured tea carefully and crossed her legs modestly.
So when their lips met, he approached her like something fragile. He kissed her slowly. Touched her waist like it might break. Treated her like someone who needed to be handled with care.
Until she grabbed his belt.
With one swift, practiced tug, she had it loose. Her eyes were sharper now, her mouth parted slightly—not from breathlessness, but from control. She wasn’t waiting. She was deciding.
He barely had time to react before she pushed him down into the armchair, climbed onto his lap, and leaned in, whispering:
“You think I don’t remember how to lead?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need it. What she wanted—she took. And in the heat of her kiss and the grip of her hand around his waistband, he realized this wasn’t going to be slow.
It was going to be hers.