The silk slid from her shoulders without a sound, pooling at her feet in a dark heap, and for a moment, she just stood there, letting him look. Then she walked over, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and climbed onto the bed, her knees bracketing his hips. Settling onto him wasn’t a soft lowering—it was a deliberate dropping of weight, as if she were pressing a seal into wax, marking this as done.
This was no impulse. It was a choice, written in the set of her jaw, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way her hands rested on his chest like she was claiming territory. He’d wondered, earlier, if this would happen—if the tension between them would ever tip into action—but now, with her this close, he realized it was never a question. It was a decision she’d already made.
“About time,” he murmured, and she laughed, low and warm, as she leaned in to kiss him. Some decisions aren’t debated. They’re felt—deep, unshakable, as inevitable as the way she fit against him, like she’d been made to.