She sat down without asking, lowering herself onto his lap in one smooth motion, as if she had every right to claim that space. At first it seemed playful, a fleeting gesture, but when her skirt shifted upward with the movement, revealing the bare line of her thigh against his, she didn’t bother to adjust it. The fabric rode high, leaving too much exposed, and yet she made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she leaned back slightly, letting the weight of her body press against him.
The moment stretched, tense and undeniable. He felt the warmth of her against him, the deliberate stillness that suggested she wanted him to notice every inch of the space she had left uncovered. She could have stood, she could have pulled the fabric down, but instead she let it remain where it was, her skin against his in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for accident. Her silence was louder than words, her stillness an unmistakable invitation.
When she finally shifted, it wasn’t to fix the skirt—it was to settle in closer, arching subtly so that the pressure between them grew more intense. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, her eyes refusing to meet his but her body telling a different story. By not correcting what had been revealed, she had made her choice. And in that suspended intimacy, the air thickened with the knowledge that once she had taken his lap as her seat, nothing about the evening would remain the same.