He was already entranced. The room was quiet, the air warm, but thick with something he couldn’t name—anticipation, maybe. Or tension so personal it couldn’t be spoken aloud.
She stood in front of him, back straight, hair loosely pinned but threatening to fall. She moved with that kind of deliberate softness that only made everything harder.
Her hands reached behind her, fingers expertly finding the clasp of her bra.
Click.
That sound—small, metallic—echoed like a gunshot in his nerves. The straps slid off her shoulders, slow and unhurried. Her body didn’t flinch. But her gaze… her gaze never broke from his.
She wasn’t looking for approval.
She wasn’t checking if he was ready.
She was watching him come undone.
The bra slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a soft, final thud. It should’ve felt like release—but it didn’t. It felt like challenge. As if dropping the last piece of fabric was only the beginning.
Still, she didn’t move closer.
She stood there, half-lit by the lamplight, bare and unashamed, letting him absorb what she had given—and what she had taken.
Because the moment her bra hit the floor, she’d taken the lead.
And all he could do was sit there, breath shallow, eyes wide…
Trying not to drown in the stare of a woman who had nothing left to hide—but everything left to demand.