The hem of her dress dipped as she leaned forward, her fingers plucking at the top of her stocking, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t there. He should have looked away, should have focused on the book in his hands, but his gaze caught on the curve of her spine, the slow rise of her shoulder blades under the fabric, the way her hair fell forward, curtaining her face.
She finished adjusting, her fingers lingering on her calf, and stayed there, bent at the waist, her back to him, as if she’d forgotten to straighten up. This wasn’t about the stocking. This was about the pause—the kind that turns a mundane gesture into something charged, something that makes the air thicken.
He set the book down, his throat dry, and she turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing her knee, her eyes meeting his over her shoulder. “See something you like?” she asked, her voice light, but there was no teasing in it—just a quiet, unflinching awareness of the power she held in that pose.
She stood slowly, her dress falling back into place, and he realized: staying bent wasn’t about the stocking. It was about letting him look, about making him want to. Some invitations don’t need words. They just need a pause—and the courage to hold it.