The sound was barely there, a soft slide of leather as her heel slipped free. No one else noticed, but he did. Beneath the table, out of sight, she moved in ways that didn’t match the calmness of her voice above it. Her toes brushed forward, hesitant at first, as if testing the waters. When they touched the fabric of his trousers, he froze, caught between disbelief and the sudden flood of awareness that she was doing it intentionally.
She didn’t look at him. That was the most dangerous part. Her face remained calm, even bored, as if discussing nothing more than the meal in front of her. But her foot lingered, pressing softly against his leg, sliding in small, unhurried motions that made his breath shallow. Every second of it demanded silence, demanded that he sit still while she traced lines only he could feel. The secrecy of it all magnified the tension, turning the act into something both intimate and forbidden.
When she finally drew her foot back, slipping into her heel again as if nothing had happened, he was left undone. The air between them was charged, heavy with everything she hadn’t said. She glanced up once, finally, her eyes calm but daring, as though she were asking without words: How long can you sit there pretending nothing happened? He knew then that this was only the beginning—that next time, she wouldn’t stop at his leg.