The buttons clicked softly against each other as she worked them loose, one by one, her gaze never leaving his. It wasn’t a show—there was no flicker of mischief, no hurry to reveal. Just a slow, unwavering focus, like she was unwrapping something precious, not undressing. When the last button gave way, she let the fabric hang open for a beat, then slid the shirt off her arms, letting it pool on the floor.
He thought that would be the moment—when she’d lean in, when the air would crackle with urgency. But she turned, stepping between his knees, and climbed onto his lap as casually as if she were settling into a favorite chair. Her thighs bracketed his hips, her core pressing lightly against his, and she rested her palms on his chest, her fingers splaying over his heartbeat. “Better,” she said, like this was the only way things could be.
This wasn’t conquest. It was familiarity, the kind that comes from knowing a space so well you don’t need to ask permission to occupy it. He’d never realized his lap could feel like home until she made it hers—slowly, surely, with the quiet confidence of someone who belongs. When she tilted her head to kiss him, he didn’t hesitate. Some things are meant to be claimed.