It was the way she sat on the edge of his lap—light at first, teasing, as if deciding whether or not to stay—that undid him. He had one arm half-wrapped around her waist, the other resting uselessly at his side. She looked down at him, her lips barely parted, her eyes unreadable.
Then her fingers went to the first button of her blouse.
She didn’t rush.
The first one came undone with a soft pop. She paused. The second, slower. Each motion deliberate, like she was unraveling more than just fabric—unwrapping the air around them, thickening the tension, daring him to breathe.
By the third button, he had stopped blinking.
The blouse eased open, exposing skin in fragments—enough to ignite, not satisfy. She never looked down. Her eyes stayed locked on his, watching him feel every inch she revealed.
Then, with a fluid shift of her hips, she moved.
Lowered herself.
Onto him.
Not hurriedly. Not aggressively. Just completely.
He let out a shaky breath, hands hovering at her sides, unsure if he was allowed to touch her—or if touching would break the spell she was weaving.
But she didn’t need help. She didn’t want guidance. She wanted control.
Her blouse, now loose and forgotten, hung open like a curtain framing the performance—hers alone. And he, still and breathless beneath her, understood his role:
To yield.
To watch.
And to want.
Without asking for more than she chose to give.