At first, he thought he was in charge. He leaned in, kissed her neck, let his hands wander—eager, excited, certain that she’d melt beneath him.
But she didn’t melt. She moved.
With one hand, she pushed him firmly back against the pillows. Not rough, but definite. Her other hand rested on his chest, holding him there as she looked down at him—eyes steady, expression unreadable.
“Don’t move,” she said, voice low. “Let me.”
He froze. Not from fear, but from shock. From heat. From the realization that she wasn’t waiting to be touched—she was here to take.
She climbed over him with practiced grace, her knees straddling his sides, her skirt rising inch by inch. Every movement was slow, intentional. She knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it.
His hands twitched, wanting to grab her hips, but she stopped him with a look.
“I said still.”
And he obeyed. Because in that moment, with her body looming above his and her fingers trailing down her own stomach, he wasn’t the one in control.
She was. Completely.