He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s fine. Just—stay where you are.”
“Here?”
“Yes. There.” He pauses, visibly bracing himself. “Do not move.”
So I don’t.
Which is how I end up straddling him anyway.
He looks up at me, unimpressed. Resigned.
“We are never speaking of this part again,” he says.
“Agreed.”
“Good.” He settles back against the couch. “Now. Back to the lesson.”
"Relax," he says.
"I'm relaxed."
"You're a wooden board."
"Wooden boards are very relaxed."
His hands settle on my waist. Carefully. Controlled. Just resting there, thumbs pressing gently into the skin above my hips.
"Rule one," he says. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not—"
"I can hear your internal monologue from here." His thumbs press slightly. "Stop narrating. Start feeling."
I try to breathe normally. Failing spectacularly.
"When you're this close to someone," he continues, voice dropping, "everything you do matters. Where you put your hands. How you breathe. Whether you hold eye contact or look away."
"Where should I—"
"Put your hands on my shoulders."
I obey. His shoulders are solid muscle under my palms, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Good," he murmurs. "Now lean in. Slowly."
I lean forward an inch.
The space between us shrinks. I can feel his breath. Can see the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes.
"This is where most people fail," he says quietly. "They rush. They get nervous and try to skip ahead. But seduction is about the anticipation. Thealmost. Make him wait for it."
“That’s step nine of the seventeen I read,” I say. “But it never mentions for how long—”
"Until he breaks, Jane."
His hands tighten on my waist. Just slightly. Just enough that I feel the strength in them, the restraint.
My pulse is hammering. Every nerve ending is firing. This is a lesson. This is professional. This is part of the deal.
