He had always thought of her as composed—refined, even. There was a weight to her presence, like gravity bending the mood of the room. But tonight, that gravity was pulling in a different direction.
She stood in front of him, fingers resting lightly on the clasp of her skirt. No music. No talking. Just the sound of his own breathing, deep and uneven. She looked down at him—not asking permission, not inviting a response—just deciding.
With a delicate flick, the clasp came undone. Then the slow motion of fabric sliding down her hips. It was sensual, yes, but more than that—it was intentional. She wasn’t performing. She was claiming.
The skirt dropped to the floor in silence, pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it like it meant nothing. Like he meant everything.
He didn’t move.
Then, with an ease that caught him off guard, she straddled his lap—one knee, then the other—settling onto him like the moment had always belonged to her. Not fast. Not rushed. Just complete control. Her hands rested on his shoulders. Her eyes stayed locked on his.
He swallowed hard. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just watched him struggle with the tension between desire and awe.
And he realized—he wasn’t supposed to do anything.
This wasn’t about him.
She didn’t need him to react. She only needed him to stay still—while she rewrote the moment on her terms.