He sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting awkwardly on his thighs, unsure whether this was part of the game—or a test.
“Don’t touch,” she said softly, yet firmly.
His instinct was to smile, maybe even laugh—but her eyes made it clear: this was not a request. It was instruction.
She stood in front of him, slowly sliding her fingers beneath the hem of her top. Lifting. Revealing. But never breaking eye contact. Every inch of skin exposed was deliberate. Not rushed. Not performative. Just owned.
He tried not to move. Tried not to shift. But she noticed every breath he took. Every muscle that tensed as she peeled off the fabric one layer at a time—like she knew exactly how long a man could endure watching without touching.
Her skirt came next.
She didn’t shimmy. Didn’t sway. Just unzipped it, let it fall, and stepped out like it was beneath her—like he might be too, if he didn’t behave.
His hands clenched slightly, but they never left his sides.
And that pleased her.
She leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
“You blinked,” she whispered.
“Next time… don’t.”
And he knew—he wasn’t in charge of the show.
He was just lucky to be allowed a front-row seat.