He was already seated, back pressed against the headboard, heart thudding louder than he’d admit. She approached without a word, eyes steady, skirt swaying just enough to tease. And then—without asking—she climbed on top of him.
Fully clothed.
Her weight settled over him with authority. The warmth of her thighs through the fabric. The softness of her shirt pressing into his chest. Her scent—subtle, confident—wrapped around him like a slow fog.
She didn’t move.
Not yet.
She leaned in, lips barely brushing his ear, and in a voice so low it was almost vibration, she whispered:
“My earrings… first.”
His breath caught. He hadn’t even noticed them. But she reached up, unhooked one, then the other, placing them gently on the nightstand like fragile secrets. Still straddling him. Still dressed.
Then she spoke again.
“Then my blouse… one button at a time.”
And she meant it. She wasn’t asking for permission. She was narrating the slow unraveling of his composure, piece by deliberate piece.