She knew exactly what he wanted.
And that’s why she wouldn’t give it.
Not all of it.
He was lying back, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes pleading without words. But she took her time, walking the length of the room like it was a stage and he was the audience—bound by the weight of his own expectations.
Her blouse came off first, slowly, revealing the delicate lace beneath. Not see-through—no, that would be too easy. Just thin enough to provoke imagination. Just sheer enough to make him ache.
Then her skirt—unzipped, but only enough to slide down one hip. She let it rest crooked on her waist, the asymmetry more tempting than nudity. Her legs remained half-covered, one bare thigh peeking out with each slow step.
He reached for her—but she stopped him with a look.
“I didn’t say you could touch.”
She leaned down, her breath brushing his neck, her hands ghosting over the top button of his pants. But she didn’t undo it. Not yet. Instead, she reached back… and undid one garter strap.
Just one.
Then she stood tall again, smiling faintly, like someone who had all night to play with his restraint. She hadn’t removed everything. Not even close. But what she had shown—what she had held back—was enough to make him beg.
And that, she knew, was the point.
Some women strip for desire.
She stripped for control.
And he was already hers—piece by unfinished piece.