He’d expected her to sit beside him—modestly, cautiously, with the kind of careful grace he had always associated with her. But she didn’t take the spot next to him.
She climbed onto the chair instead.
Straddling it. Facing him.
Her knees pressed into the cushions, her dress shifting up her thighs as she moved into position. It was quiet, but not subtle. Not to him. He watched, stunned, as she adjusted herself—centered, grounded—settling into his lap like she had rehearsed it a thousand times.
And then she opened herself.
Not just her legs.
Not just her body.
Her eyes. Her posture. Her silence.
It was vulnerability, yes—but also control. She wasn’t asking to be seen. She was choosing to be. And she let him feel the full weight of that choice.
She leaned in, her palms against his chest, her breath brushing his skin. Not a word passed between them. But everything about her presence said, Now. Not later. Not if he earned it. Now—because she said so.
She didn’t need permission to be bold.
She was the moment.
And he was lucky to be in it.