She was seated across from him at the table, the late afternoon sun streaming through the window behind her, casting long shadows across the floor. She shifted slightly in her chair, a slow, languid movement that drew his attention immediately. Fingers reached up to the buttons of her blouse, brushing the fabric lightly as if straightening it, but with an almost imperceptible hesitation.
And then, deliberately, she unbuttoned the top one. The gesture was subtle, almost casual—but deliberate enough to reveal a hint of the curve beneath, a glimpse of skin that made his throat dry. She didn’t glance down at what she’d revealed; her eyes stayed locked on his, steady and daring, as if challenging him to look, to notice, to imagine.
His breath hitched slightly. She could tell. Her lips curved faintly, just a trace of a smile, and she leaned back slightly in her chair, letting the light accentuate the shadow of her collarbone and the gentle slope of her shoulder. The motion was simple, yet devastating in its effect. He felt the heat in his chest, awareness of her presence sharpening every nerve.
The blouse hung loosely, the top unbuttoned just enough for him to see, not to touch. She shifted in the chair again, the fabric brushing her sides as she moved, reminding him of the boundary between sight and indulgence. Every subtle gesture—the tilt of her head, the curl of her fingers, the ease of her breathing—worked in tandem to pull his attention entirely toward her.
“Did you see that?” she asked softly, a teasing note in her voice that made him flush. Not a question, more an assertion: she knew the effect, and she had intended it.
He swallowed, unsure whether to glance away, but the sight was anchored, impossible to ignore. And when she adjusted her posture again, leaning ever so slightly forward, the fabric shifted again, accentuating the lines of her chest and shoulders. It was a silent conversation, one she conducted entirely with her body, letting him know exactly what he could imagine—and what he shouldn’t.