She didn’t rush.
Her knees sank into the bed on either side of his hips with a deliberateness that made time slow. Her thighs brushed against his, her skirt dragging over his skin like velvet tension.
Then she sat.
Not heavily.
Not hungrily.
Just enough to settle—on him, over him, but not quite around him.
Her eyes locked with his. Unblinking. Testing.
He was ready—aching, hard, held at the edge by a thread.
But she didn’t grind. Didn’t ride.
She stayed still.
Perfectly still.
Her heat pulsed against him, separated by fabric and restraint. And she whispered:
“Don’t move. Not until I say.”
His muscles twitched. His instincts screamed. Every part of him wanted to thrust upward, to grip her thighs, to take control.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
Because her stillness wasn’t passive.
It was dominance in its purest form.
She straddled him—not for pleasure.
For proof.
How long could he endure her presence without permission?
How long could he survive the weight of her… almost?
That was the game.
And she was winning.