He wasn’t sure how the evening had drifted into this charged silence. One moment they were talking, casually, about something he couldn’t remember now. The next, she had shifted in her seat, her top slipping ever so slightly from her shoulders.
It wasn’t a striptease. There was no drama, no deliberate posing. Just the simple, slow surrender of fabric to gravity. One shoulder bared, then the other. A glimpse of skin that seemed to glow in the low light. He stared—unable not to.
She didn’t look embarrassed. She didn’t adjust it back. She let it fall.
And then—without a word—she moved. Walked the few steps between them and sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. No questions. No coy smile. Just a quiet assertion of presence.
Her legs pressed against his. Her weight settled in. Her breath, warm against his ear. He froze, unsure if he should speak, move, respond. But she didn’t need a response. She wasn’t asking.
She rested one hand on his chest and looked at him—not to gauge his reaction, but to remind him of who was in control. Her top hung off her frame, loose and effortless, exposing just enough to blur the line between suggestion and promise.
He had never felt so owned by silence.
So pinned by softness.
And all he could do was sit there… and let her take the lead.