It wasn’t an accident. Not the first time, not the third. She moved with an ease that seemed unconscious, but the glint in her eyes told a different story. Each time she crossed her legs, the hem of her skirt shifted just enough to invite a glance—never enough to break decorum, but enough to make him fight the urge to stare.
She spoke casually, as if discussing nothing more serious than the weather, but her body language told an entirely different conversation. A slow shift of the hips, a faint tug at the fabric, the deliberate pause before she crossed her legs again—it was a rhythm he was learning without realizing it. She wasn’t impatient; she was drawing the game out, giving him time to register every little adjustment.
The air between them seemed thicker, charged with the unspoken knowledge that she was in control of his attention. And when she leaned forward, her skirt settling in just the right way, she caught him looking. She didn’t scold, didn’t pull the fabric down. Instead, she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that told him she had seen everything he’d been trying not to see.