He rose instinctively, maybe to lead her to the couch, or to offer her a drink—something polite, something deferential.
But she had other plans.
Her hand landed on his chest with unexpected strength, and in one swift motion, she pushed him right back down into the chair. He blinked, surprised, but she wasn’t finished.
She lifted her dress.
Not all the way. Just enough. Enough to make his breath catch. Enough to make everything change.
Then she turned, backed up slowly, and sat—right on him.
Her weight was warm, steady, commanding. Her hips found his lap like she’d sat there before—maybe not in body, but certainly in intention. She didn’t ask, didn’t explain. She just took the seat.
And with it, she took the lead.
Her fingers traced the edge of his collar. Her breath was calm while his raced. She didn’t care how long he’d waited for this. She only cared that he didn’t move now.
Because she was the one in motion.
And he was there to feel it—every inch, every second.
She had taken the seat.
And with it, all the power.