She stood by the window, the moonlight slanting over her dress, and let her fingers trail over the zipper, slow, like she was considering whether to pull it. His eyes were fixed on her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and she smiled to herself. This wasn’t about teasing. It was about savoring the tension—the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, the way he shifted from foot to foot, like he was fighting the urge to cross the room and do it for her.
“Patience,” she said, turning to face him, her voice light, and he let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-amused. She’d noticed it early on—how he thrived on this, the slow burn, the wait that made the eventual touch feel like a reward. Undressing too quickly would end the game, and where was the fun in that?
She unbuttoned the top of her dress, one finger at a time, and watched his jaw tighten. “You can come closer,” she said, but he stayed where he was, his gaze locked on hers, like he was proving he could wait. She laughed, low, and let the dress slip off one shoulder, just enough to make him shift again.
This was the dance: her slow, deliberate moves, his quiet struggle to stay still. He thought she was taking her time for his benefit, but really, she was enjoying the show—the way he tried to hide how much he wanted her, the way his control frayed a little more with each passing second.
When she finally let the dress fall, pooling at her feet, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Happy?” she asked, and he crossed the room in two strides, his hands on her waist, his kiss hungry. “About time,” he muttered, and she smiled against his lips. Half the fun, after all, was watching him forget how to wait.