She doesn’t ask if he’s comfortable.
She doesn’t ask if he’s ready.
She simply decides.
She steps between his knees, slow enough that he feels every inch of her presence, every breath she takes in the small space he thought belonged to him.
Then—without ceremony, without hesitation—she lowers herself onto the edge of his lap.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Just enough for him to feel the weight of her, the warmth, the intention.
His breath stumbles.
She hears it, and she lets her smile grow just a little, the kind of smile only experienced women wear when they know they’re steering everything.
She reaches for his hands—not to hold them, but to place them.
One on her lower back.
One on her thigh.
“Leave them there,” she murmurs.
Not a suggestion.
A directive.
She doesn’t raise her voice.
She doesn’t need to.
Women like her never need volume to be obeyed.
He nods instinctively, but she tilts her head and whispers:
“No. I want you to feel yourself listening to me.”
Her fingers slide along his jawline as she settles a little more onto his lap—slow, measured, a shift that sends a quiet ripple through him that he can’t hide.
Her hips barely move, but her closeness does the work for her.
She leans in, her lips near his ear, her breath brushing the skin there in a way that turns the entire room into a private lesson in patience.
“You don’t hold me,” she says softly.
“I hold you.”
His hands stay exactly where she put them—because she put them there.
Not because he wants to move, but because he’s afraid of breaking the spell her body is weaving over his.
Then she pauses, her body still, her voice low:
“Do you feel how still you are for me?”
He does.
He can’t help it.
Her fingers trace the back of his neck, slow enough to make him tense, close enough to make him forget how to breathe.
She doesn’t move much—just slight, deliberate shifts that make the weight of her mean something he can’t name.
She’s not sitting on him.
She’s controlling him with silence, with closeness, with the places she has chosen for his hands.
And he realizes the truth she already knew:
The moment isn’t about touching her.
It’s about obeying her—
and wanting to.
