He sank into the armchair, his legs stretching out, a sigh of relief escaping as he relaxed. Long day, heavy feet, a quiet evening ahead—until she walked in, stood in front of him, and sat. Not in the other chair. On him.
Her knees bracketed his thighs, her weight settling firmly, her hands on the arms of the chair, caging him in. He stiffened, about to joke, to ask what she was doing, but the look in her eyes stopped him. This wasn’t playfulness. This was purpose.
He’d sat to escape—to let the world slow down. She’d sat to engage—to make him present, to remind him that rest could be active, that stillness could hum with tension. “Comfortable?” she asked, but it was rhetorical. She shifted, her hips pressing into his, and he stopped pretending to relax.
This was the difference: his sitting was surrender. Hers was command. When she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t lean back. He leaned up—because sometimes, control isn’t about taking. It’s about making someone want to meet you halfway.