Ethan had known Monica for years—his best friend’s older sister, thirty-five, divorced, with that magnetic calm that made everyone underestimate her… until she wanted something.
Tonight, he found himself helping her carry a box of old books into her apartment after a casual dinner. The door clicked shut behind them, and she leaned back against it, letting out a soft sigh.
“You’ve been working too hard,” he said, glancing at her, heart thudding a little faster than usual.
Monica’s hand slid up to adjust her blouse—but not to fix it. The motion was slow, deliberate, her fingers brushing just below her collarbone. Ethan’s eyes caught the slight shimmer of skin and the faint curve beneath the fabric. His pulse jumped.
She noticed, of course. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Is that what you’re thinking?” she asked, voice low, teasing—but tinged with something darker.
Ethan swallowed, feeling heat rise to his ears. “Maybe…”
Monica stepped closer, the subtle sway of her hips sending a tiny shock through him. Her hand brushed his as she reached for a book on the counter, lingering on his fingers just long enough to make him inhale sharply.
“Careful,” she whispered, tilting her head so her hair fell over one shoulder. “Some things can’t be unseen once they are.”
It was slow motion—the way she moved, the way her blouse stretched slightly across her chest, the deliberate way her eyes met his. Ethan’s fingers twitched. He wanted to reach out, to let her know he wasn’t just looking… he was waiting for her to decide.
Her hand slid down his arm, almost casual, almost innocent. Yet every brush carried intent, and every second the air thickened between them.
Monica leaned against the counter, pressing her body just close enough that he could feel her warmth. She tilted her head, biting her lower lip—just the edge—her subtle invitation clear.
Ethan’s resolve faltered. “Monica…” he breathed, voice hoarse.
“Shhh,” she said, lifting a finger to his lips with slow deliberation. “Tonight, let me show you, not tell you.”
The rest of the night unraveled in slow, charged moments. Each touch, each glance, each brush of skin against skin was measured, deliberate, full of the tension that had built up over years of stolen looks and subtle hints.
By the time the city outside dimmed to quiet hums of late traffic, Ethan was on his knees, utterly captivated, while Monica’s blouse hung loose, one shoulder bare, her eyes locked on his. Her smile was victorious yet teasing—she had led him every step, and he had followed without a second thought.
Finally, she pulled him close, pressing her forehead to his, whispering, “Some adjustments… aren’t for fixing.”
Ethan nodded, heart pounding, utterly aware that nothing tonight had been accidental—and nothing would ever feel the same again.
