The movement was ordinary on the surface. She bent forward to pick up a glass that had tipped toward the edge of the table. But she did it slowly—too slowly, with a deliberateness that made it anything but casual.
He noticed immediately. How could he not? The neckline of her blouse shifted, parting just enough to reveal the delicate slope of her collarbone, the faint shadow of skin that was never meant to be offered so openly. She didn’t adjust her blouse right away. Instead, she lingered in that bend, her body angled toward him, her hair falling like a curtain while the slightest smile played at the corner of her lips.
He looked away, or at least tried to. His eyes betrayed him, drawn back as though pulled by an invisible tether. The heat rose in his chest, a dangerous mix of guilt and desire, because he knew she had done it intentionally. And worse—he knew she wanted him to notice.
When she straightened, her fingers brushed along the rim of the glass, slow, tracing it as if she had forgotten he was watching. But she hadn’t forgotten. Every movement was too precise, too perfectly timed to the silence between them. She looked up at him through the strands of her hair, her gaze holding his for just long enough to leave no doubt about her intention.
He clenched his jaw, trying to hold himself steady. He was a married man, one who had built walls of restraint brick by brick over the years. But she pressed against those walls with nothing more than the tilt of her body, the subtle reveal of skin, the dangerous suggestion hidden in a simple gesture.
“You’re quiet,” she murmured, her voice teasing, soft enough that it sounded like something meant only for him.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Her smile deepened, sly and knowing. She leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the table this time, her neckline shifting once more. “And yet,” she whispered, “you are.”
Her hand slid closer across the surface, her fingers barely brushing his as if testing whether he would pull away. He didn’t. The warmth of her skin against his was electric, sending a shiver up his arm. She watched him carefully, eyes locked on his, her breath steady and deliberate.
It wasn’t what she showed him that undid him—it was the way she controlled what she revealed, just enough to set his imagination ablaze, never enough to satisfy it. That restraint, that tormenting pace, was what drew him deeper into her orbit.
By the time she leaned back, her blouse still carelessly shifted, he realized the truth: she wasn’t waiting for him to make the first move. She already had. Every slow bend, every calculated reveal, was her way of pulling him toward the edge.
And he knew—if he stayed a moment longer, he would fall.