The steam from the bathroom still clung to her skin when she stepped into the bedroom, the white terrycloth robe hanging loose around her shoulders. She paused by the dresser, reaching for a bottle of lotion, and that’s when it happened—the fabric sliding off one shoulder, revealing a slope of skin, warm and damp from the shower, before she “noticed” and pulled it back up, her cheeks flushing. “Oops,” she said, her voice light, almost shy.
But her eyes told a different story. They met his in the mirror, dark and steady, no trace of embarrassment. The flush in her cheeks wasn’t from shame—it was from the thrill of being caught, the quiet power of knowing she’d held his gaze, even for a second. He’d seen that look before, in the way she “accidentally” brushed his arm when passing the salt, or “forgot” to close the bathroom door when she knew he was nearby. This wasn’t clumsiness. It was invitation, wrapped in a pretense of innocence.
She turned, the robe slipping again, and this time she didn’t rush to fix it. Let it hang, just enough to tease, as she walked toward him, her bare feet padding softly on the carpet. “Cold in here,” she said, but there was no shiver in her voice, no hurry to bundle up. When she reached him, she let her hand rest on his chest, her fingers grazing the edge of his shirt. “Better?” she asked, and he didn’t need to look down to know the robe was still open, just a little.
He pulled her closer, his hand sliding over the back of the robe, keeping it in place this time. “Much,” he said, and she smiled, that same knowing smile, because they both understood—the accident was just a game, and they were both playing.