The fabric shifted when she crossed her legs, a soft slide that revealed more than she usually allowed. The hem inched higher, baring the smooth curve of her thigh, and for a moment it looked as though she might tug it back into place. But her hands stayed folded neatly in her lap, unmoving. She knew exactly how far the skirt had climbed. She knew the angle of his gaze had already changed. And she knew that leaving it as it was spoke louder than any adjustment she could have made. Her stillness was a choice, deliberate and dangerous. The kind of choice that said she was aware, that she wanted to be seen.
She shifted slightly, just enough to make the fabric slide again, not a correction but an encouragement. The air grew heavier as his eyes lingered, caught between the courtesy of looking away and the hunger that kept him fixed on her. She didn’t meet his gaze right away; she let him look, let him take in what she was offering without words. Then, slowly, she turned her head, catching him in the act. There was no scolding in her expression, no embarrassment in her face. Instead, there was a faint smile, a knowing curve of her lips that told him she had wanted this all along. She didn’t have to speak for him to understand: the skirt remained high because she intended it to.
When she finally uncrossed her legs, the fabric shifted again, teasing him with another glimpse, another chance to wonder how much she might let him see. Still she made no move to cover herself, no attempt to hide what he already could not forget. She leaned back instead, her body relaxed, as though she were comfortable in the exposure, as though his attention pleased her more than any careful modesty could. And it did. She wanted him to watch, to imagine, to ache with the thought of sliding that hemline higher himself. Her silence, her stillness, her refusal to pull the skirt down—those were her secrets, spoken clearly to him alone.