He was still trying to make sense of her shift in mood. One minute she was quiet, almost shy. The next—she stood before him, lifting her skirt with one hand, revealing smooth thighs and lace she clearly meant for him to see.
But she didn’t take it off.
No, she pulled it up—high enough to straddle, high enough to control—but left on just enough to keep him guessing. To keep him hungry.
Then she climbed onto his lap.
Not clumsy, not cautious. She moved like a woman who’d done this before—who knew exactly where her knees belonged, exactly how to settle her weight to make him feel it in his spine.
His hands hovered, unsure where to land.
She noticed.
“You’ll know when,” she whispered.
Her hips rolled forward, just once, and it took everything in him not to respond. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t even undressing. She was demonstrating—that control didn’t come from being bare.
It came from knowing how to move while dressed.