The silk gaped suddenly, buttons popping free when she reached for his hands, and for a second, he stared—at the lace of her bra, at the soft slope of her collarbone, at the way the light caught the edge of the fabric. But then she stepped forward, lifting a knee to brush his thigh, and swung the other over, settling into a straddle that made his vision blur.
It wasn’t the openness of the blouse that did it. It was the weight of her—solid, deliberate, her hips pressing into his with a rhythm that wasn’t hurried, but hungry. The blouse was just fabric, a detail. This was intention: the way she leaned in, her forearms braced on his shoulders, the way her ankles locked behind his back, the way she rolled her hips once, slow, like she was testing the fit.
He gasped, a sound he couldn’t hold back, and she smiled, her lips brushing his ear. “Notice me now?” she murmured. He’d noticed the blouse. But this? This was noticing her—the heat of her skin, the strength in her thighs, the quiet command in the way she wouldn’t let him look away. Breath was overrated, anyway.