The chair creaked softly as she lowered herself into it, her movements unhurried, as though she knew he was watching. The hem of her skirt slid upward as she crossed one leg over the other, revealing more than politeness should allow. She noticed, of course—how could she not? But she made no effort to adjust it back into place.
Instead, she let the fabric rest carelessly where it had risen, exposing the smooth line of her thigh. It was not an accident, though she masked it behind casual conversation, her voice steady as if nothing had shifted. He tried to focus on her words, on the harmless details she was spinning, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking downward, caught by the dangerous invitation her body offered without speaking it aloud.
She leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed, one hand resting lightly on her knee. That hand didn’t still. Her fingertips traced lazy circles against her skin, absent, as though she were unaware of the effect. But her eyes betrayed her awareness—steady, watching him from under her lashes, catching the flicker of his gaze every time it faltered.
He shifted in his seat, trying to mask the tension coiling inside him. His conscience whispered that he should look away, that he should not notice, not want. But the silence between them grew heavy, the air charged, thick with a kind of daring that had no room for denial.
“You’re distracted,” she said lightly, her lips curving. Her tone was playful, but her eyes glimmered with something sharper, something that asked him to admit what he saw.
“I’m not,” he answered too quickly, his voice strained.
Her smile deepened, slow and deliberate. She let her heel slip from her shoe, her foot flexing as she stretched it under the table. A moment later, he felt the brush of her toes against his ankle—so light, so fleeting he could have convinced himself it was an accident. But then it came again, firmer this time, pressing against him with quiet insistence.
His breath caught. She didn’t look away. She let the silence drag out, her skirt still resting high on her thighs, her foot tracing along his leg beneath the cover of the table.
Every instinct told him to stop it, to pull away, to end the dangerous game before it unravelled into something he couldn’t contain. But instead, he found himself leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his eyes locked on hers.
“You should fix your skirt,” he said finally, though his voice betrayed the lie in his concern.
“Should I?” she asked softly, tilting her head. But she made no move to pull it down. Her hand pressed against her thigh instead, fingers sliding upward in a gesture that made his pulse pound.
And in that moment, he understood: it wasn’t carelessness that left her skirt where it was. It was choice. A deliberate, unspoken invitation to see how far he would let her go—and how much further he would let himself follow.