He was still catching up to the moment—arms resting on his thighs, lips parted slightly, unsure if this was an invitation or a warning.
She didn’t wait to explain.
She walked over slowly, confidently, like she’d done this before—like the room, the man, the silence all belonged to her. And before he could stand, or stammer something foolish, she settled onto his lap.
Firm. Full. Heavy with intent.
No questions.
No pause.
Just the subtle shift of her hips against him—once, then again.
He inhaled sharply, but it wasn’t enough. His breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat as she began to rock—small, controlled movements, like she had practiced restraint long enough, and now it was his turn.
Her hands didn’t touch him.
She didn’t need to.
His thighs tightened beneath her. His hands twitched, unsure where to go—because she hadn’t given permission. Her gaze flicked down at his indecision, almost amused. And then she leaned in, her breath brushing the side of his cheek.
“You don’t move,” she murmured, hips never stopping, “unless I tell you.”
He nodded, but it was too late—he was already unraveling.
She had found a rhythm. One that didn’t need music.
Just silence, control… and pressure.
And the cruelest part?
She was still fully clothed.