The fabric rustled as she gripped the neckline, lifting it slowly, the hem catching on her hips for a breath before sliding free. It pooled at her feet, a dark puddle on the floor, leaving her in nothing but a thin slip that clung to her curves. He tensed, his hands curling into fists, the urge to reach for her coiling in his gut—but then she turned, her gaze sharp, her voice firm. “Don’t move,” she said, and he froze.
This wasn’t a request. It was a command, soft but unyielding, the kind that makes your bones feel heavy. She stepped closer, her bare toes brushing his shoe, and he stayed still, his breath held, because something in her eyes said obedience will be rewarded. The dress was just the first act. The real power was in making him wait—making him want to move, to touch, to bridge the space between them—and stopping him with a single sentence.
She traced the line of his jaw with one finger, her touch light, almost teasing, and he didn’t flinch. “Good,” she murmured, and the praise hit him harder than any caress. When she finally said “You can touch me now,” it wasn’t just permission. It was a gift—earned, savored, proof that sometimes, the sweetest thing is being told when to wait.