She moved like sin draped in silk—slow, deliberate, and so goddamn suggestive it was almost a parody. Every step screamed, Look at me. And Justin? He didn't complain.
Even if there was anywhere else to look, he'd still choose to look at her. Not because he was captivated. But because, honestly? It was kinda funny watching someone put on a performance like this.
She reached the couch, stopping right in front of him. A full-on blockade. His view? Gone. His personal space? Violated. But again, no complaints.
Then, her eyes lowered, locked onto his, heavy with intent.
Slowly—painfully slowly—she dipped her hands lower, gripping the hem of her dress. And then? She lifted it. Up. Up. Higher. Until—yeah. There it was. Thighs on display. Almost—almost—giving him access to the good stuff of her inner thighs.
Then, because subtlety was dead, she lifted one leg, stepping right into the couch like it was a goddamn stage, lowering herself down, her body invading every inch of his space.
