The room feels warmer than it should. He tells himself it’s the wine, or the crowded air, but the truth is simpler: it’s her. She leans in slightly as she speaks, the light catching her in all the right places. The neckline of her blouse dips lower with every movement, subtle but undeniable. She doesn’t adjust it, doesn’t cover herself. Instead, she lets the fabric fall naturally, inviting his eyes without ever granting him permission.
His gaze flickers, betraying him for a moment. He tries to focus on her words, but they come in fragments—half-lost between the steady curve that pulls his attention downward. She notices, of course she does. She pauses mid-sentence, just long enough for silence to point out his distraction. Then she smiles faintly, leaning forward another inch, as if to say she doesn’t mind being watched. The atmosphere shifts instantly; suddenly, the conversation feels less about words and more about what her body is daring him to notice.
Every tilt, every lean, becomes a test. She knows exactly how much to reveal, exactly how far to bend before modesty could excuse her. And he knows he should look away, should regain control. But the more he resists, the more magnetic her movements become. It isn’t what she’s showing—it’s what she isn’t, the careful restraint that feeds his hunger. By the time she finally leans back, leaving the air empty again, he realizes she’s already won. The curve of her blouse spoke louder than anything she said aloud.