The first time she crossed her legs, it was casual—an ordinary gesture, something anyone might do. But he noticed the way her skirt lifted just slightly, showing more than before. She didn’t pull it down, didn’t adjust or pretend to be unaware. Instead, she carried on speaking, her tone calm, her expression serene, as though the moment hadn’t shifted. He tried to look away, but the subtle curve of her thigh seemed to demand attention, commanding his eyes with quiet authority.
A few minutes later, she uncrossed and crossed them again. This time the skirt rose higher. The movement was slow, almost exaggerated, and though she kept her face composed, the flicker in her eyes told him it wasn’t careless at all. It was deliberate, a test, a slow unraveling of his restraint. She tilted her chin, sipping her drink as though nothing had changed, while beneath the table she knew she had already pulled him deeper into her orbit. Each shift of fabric was like another step toward exposure, another invitation she never put into words.
By the third time, the silence between them had thickened. His pulse quickened, and he could no longer deny what she was doing. She knew it too—knew he was watching, knew he was imagining the inches yet unrevealed. Her lips curled in the faintest smile as she crossed her legs one final time, her skirt edging higher than before. She didn’t look at him directly, but the tilt of her body, the patience of her pause, told him she was well aware of the effect. The game was not about what she showed—it was about how long she could keep him waiting, how delicious it felt to make him wonder where it would stop.