She leans forward as if reaching for something on the table, but the slowness of her movement is calculated. It gives him time—too much time—to notice the subtle shift of her body, the way her blouse falls forward, the outline that should remain private but now feels offered. He tells himself he should look away, that it’s the polite thing to do, the safe thing. Yet his eyes betray him, caught between decency and desire, unwilling to choose. She doesn’t need to glance back to know he’s watching; the pace of her lean is proof enough that she intends him to.
He feels a battle stirring inside him. The gentleman he has always tried to be whispers that this moment is innocent, that he’s misreading what her body so deliberately reveals. But another part of him—the man long starved of such temptation—knows she is aware of every inch she exposes, every second she prolongs. She lingers in that half-bent posture, creating an illusion that time itself has slowed, trapping him in the ache of wanting. He wonders if she’s testing him, daring him to resist what she already knows he craves.
When she finally sits upright, she moves just a little closer than before, as though the lean was only an excuse to shift nearer. Her lips curl faintly—not a smile, but a knowing tug at the corner, as if she’s heard the silence of his unspoken hunger. The air between them feels charged, heavier now, though neither of them says a word. He realizes she’s given him no command, no invitation—only a choice. And the longer he sits beside her, the more it feels like he has already made it.