She stood only a few feet away, her dress dark and fitted, the room lit just enough to draw contrast against her curves. He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare.
Because her eyes never left his.
Her hands reached behind her neck first, pulling her hair aside with one hand, exposing the zipper’s start. Then—without blinking—she reached down her back and began to slide it down.
The sound, faint and steady, felt louder than it should.
Each inch that gave way seemed to unravel not just fabric… but him.
Her shoulders came into view, smooth and bare. Then the upper swell of her breasts, the subtle shift of the fabric falling away. She never looked down. She didn’t need to.
The dress slipped forward and down her front, grazing her skin like a final caress. Still—no words. Just her steady breath, the quiet rustle of silk on skin, and the unbearable weight of her gaze.
She stepped out of it with one slow shift of her hips, then stood fully exposed.
And he—who hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved—was undone without a single touch.
Because some women don’t need to ask for surrender.
They simply take it—zip by zip.