She wore reading glasses and a soft smile—until she told him exactly where to put his hands. The book lay open on her lap, her glasses sliding down her nose as she glanced up at him, that gentle curve of her lips making her look harmless, almost innocent. He’d been leaning against the doorframe, watching her read, when she patted the couch beside her.
He sat, expecting quiet, maybe a discussion of the novel, but her glasses came off first, folded neatly and set aside. Then her smile faded, not into frown but into something sharper, more focused. “Here,” she said, taking his wrist and guiding his hand to her waist, “and this one—” her fingers wrapped around his other hand, placing it on her thigh, “—stays right there.”
The softness had been a costume, the glasses a prop to lull him into thinking she was passive, content to be observed. But now her voice was steady, her gaze direct, no trace of the shy reader he’d imagined. She knew exactly what she wanted from him, and she wasn’t wasting time on hints. The contrast hit him hard—the sweet pretense versus the blunt reality—and he found himself obeying, his hands staying where she’d placed them, curious to see what she’d do next. She’d played the part long enough. Now it was time for hers.