The dinner was loud, a mixture of clinking cutlery and muted conversation, but his attention was fixed on her subtle movements. She shifted slightly in her seat, crossing her legs and then uncrossing them in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her skirt rode up imperceptibly, revealing the smooth line of her thigh, enough that he noticed without anyone else suspecting. It was a tease disguised as innocence, and she knew exactly what she was doing.
He tried to focus on the conversation, to laugh at the jokes around the table, but it was impossible. The warmth of her leg brushing against his, the way she shifted just enough to catch his gaze, kept him alert, caught in a tension that wasn’t supposed to exist. It wasn’t bold or obvious, but the subtlety made it infinitely more intoxicating. She left it to him to decide how far his imagination would roam.
When she finally crossed her legs again, the movement left a trace of her intention, a silent promise in the angle and rhythm of her body. She smiled lightly, never looking at him directly, letting the tension linger. The touch of her leg against his, deliberate yet fleeting, had spoken more than any words could. In the quiet space beneath the table, something unspoken had shifted—an unacknowledged permission, a spark neither of them could ignore.