The dinner conversation carries on around them, polite laughter and the clink of glasses filling the room. But under the table, her body speaks louder than any words. She shifts in her chair ever so slightly, her knee brushing his, then parting, leaving just enough of a space that seems unintentional—yet carefully timed. His gaze falters from the plate in front of him, caught by the invisible invitation beneath the linen cloth. She doesn’t look his way, not directly. Instead, she lets her lips curl at the corners, as if aware of where his attention has wandered.
He tries to steady his breathing, telling himself it’s nothing—just a shift in posture, a casual accident. But then she does it again, slower this time. Her knees slide open in a deliberate rhythm, the kind that betrays intention. Her hand casually traces the rim of her glass, as though every movement above the table is meant to disguise the quiet theater unfolding below it. He feels a pressure in his chest, a restless heat that builds simply from watching something he isn’t sure he’s supposed to see.
By the third time, he knows it’s no accident. Her heel slides along the floor, her leg aligning perfectly so that his line of sight leaves no doubt. The gap she leaves is just wide enough to dare his imagination, but narrow enough to keep him hungry. It’s a dangerous game—one where she never acknowledges what she’s doing, and he never calls her out. Yet in that silence, the air between them grows charged, thick with the knowledge that temptation has already taken root.