He thought she was just another sweet older lady. The kind who baked too much and always smelled faintly of cinnamon. She had soft silver curls, a floral cardigan, and a voice that reminded him of lullabies.
But he had no idea what she was capable of.
They were supposed to be watching a movie—a black-and-white classic, her pick. He sat beside her, relaxed, not thinking twice when she reached over to straighten the blanket across his lap. It felt grandmotherly. Innocent.
But then her hand stayed there. Just long enough to make him blink.
“You’re tense,” she said, eyes fixed on the screen. “I know what to do about that.”
Before he could answer, she shifted her weight, and suddenly—he was flat on his back. She was on top of him, straddling his thighs, her cardigan slipping open just enough to reveal a silk camisole beneath.
He stammered. She grinned.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said, pinning his wrists with surprising strength. “Just because I bake doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”
It flipped everything he thought he knew. About aging. About women. About who was supposed to take control.