It wasn’t the act itself that undid him—it was the sound. The soft, deliberate rustle of fabric as she crossed her legs again, slow enough for him to notice, sharp enough to cut through conversation. She didn’t look at him when she did it. She didn’t need to. The subtle shift of her knee, the faint movement of her skirt, the friction of fabric against fabric—it was a language of its own, spoken for his ears alone. He felt his chest tighten, his focus breaking, as if her silence was filled with more noise than he could bear.
Every time she moved, she created rhythm. A rhythm that pulled his attention lower, away from words, away from reason. He tried to tell himself it was coincidence, but the timing betrayed her. Just as he regained composure, she shifted again, and the fabric whispered like a secret across the room. She wasn’t offering anything obvious. She was offering the smallest reminder of proximity, of a body deliberately positioned, of a woman who knew how to stir a man without lifting a finger.
By the time her foot tapped lightly against the floor, his restlessness had already betrayed him. He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust, pretending not to hear what she already knew he did. She never addressed it, never acknowledged the game outright. That was the point. Her power wasn’t in showing, but in suggesting. And as long as he heard that quiet rustle, he realized he would never hear silence the same way again.