She shifted slightly in her chair, the kind of slow, deliberate movement that drew attention without seeming intentional. Her skirt, dark and soft, moved with her, and as she crossed her legs, it rode up just enough to reveal the curve of her thigh. Not a scandalous reveal, but calculated in its subtlety—precise enough for him to notice, and impossible to look away from.
He tried to focus on the conversation, on the soft clink of glasses and the murmur of the room around them, but it was futile. His gaze betrayed him, lingering on the line of her leg that peeked from beneath the fabric. She was aware of it, he could see in the tilt of her head and the faint curl of her lips. She let the skirt rest slightly higher, teasing without forcing, just enough for him to catch a glimpse and for the air to thicken with anticipation.
Her hands were still on her lap, but she subtly shifted them, smoothing the skirt over her hips, letting it slide up another inch. The movement was casual, deliberate, as if she were straightening the fabric. And yet, every inch revealed felt like a private performance, a silent conversation of its own. His pulse quickened; he was caught, entirely, in the tension of watching and being watched.
Her eyes met his across the table. There was no embarrassment, no shame—only a knowing confidence. She held his gaze long enough for him to understand that she controlled not just the space between them, but his thoughts, his focus, and his restraint. She leaned back slightly, letting the skirt fall naturally, but the effect remained. He couldn’t erase the memory of what he had seen—or imagined—while she allowed him to watch.