I am your present

The room is warm, the air thick with candlelight and the faint trace of her perfume. The scent is something delicate, lingering—like jasmine after rain, like something meant to be remembered.

He sits on the couch, his suit immaculate, posture relaxed but precise. The low glow of the lamps catches the sharp cut of his jaw, the composed stillness of his expression. His eyes—dark, unreadable—follow her with quiet certainty.

Always watching.

She stands before him, wrapped in the softest whisper of lingerie, satin ribbons hugging her curves. A bow sits tied around her waist, its message written in careful script: “I am your present.”

A slow smile plays at her lips as she tilts her head, letting the anticipation stretch just a little longer. Then, her voice—low and smooth—breaks the hush.

“I told you yesterday I had a present for you.” She watches the way his gaze lingers, not just on her skin but on the meaning behind her words. “Did you like it?”

His reply is quiet, measured. No hesitation.

"I do. And I appreciate it."

A thrill runs through her at the simplicity of it, at the way he never dresses his words in excess. She steps closer, her bare feet soundless against the plush carpet, closing the space between them inch by inch.

"You know you have all of me when we are together."

His fingers shift where they rest on his thigh—a small, deliberate movement. Almost imperceptible, but she catches it. Then, his voice—calm, steady, carrying something deeper beneath its surface.

"Yes, I know. And I intend to keep it that way—eyes only on me."

There is no teasing lilt in his tone, no room for uncertainty. His words settle between them, quiet but weighted.

She lets the moment breathe before she speaks again, watching the way the firelight dances in his eyes.

“I hope you can take care of what you start.”

His jaw tightens—just slightly. Then, the faintest exhale. When he finally responds, his voice is smooth, certain.

"I don’t start things I don’t intend to finish."

She studies him—the confidence in his voice, the weight of his presence, the way he commands a room without needing to move.

And then, with a slight tilt of her head, she asks the question that lingers between them, soft but certain.

“I hope that means more than just tonight.”

A stillness settles. The hush of a breath. The quiet stretch of seconds where he does not answer.

It’s brief—but it’s there.

Then, he shifts. Not much—just the smallest adjustment in his posture, a careful recalibration. When he finally speaks, his voice is lighter, detached—but not dismissive.

"What do you think?"

Not quite a tease. Not quite a retreat. A calculated space between certainty and hesitation.

She doesn’t smile this time. Instead, she tilts her chin, the weight of her words pressing against the moment like velvet against skin.

"I think you don’t have an answer you’re ready to give."

He doesn’t look away.

And that, in itself, is something.

She exhales, slow and measured, her fingers lifting, reaching—brushing against the silk of his tie. She smooths it between her fingertips, adjusting it slightly. Not because it needs fixing, but because she simply wants to touch him.

"That’s alright." Her voice is softer now, something warm beneath the statement, something patient.

"I can wait."

His hands move at last, deliberate, slow, settling against the curve of her waist. He doesn’t pull her in, doesn’t rush, just holds her there.

The warmth of his palms against her skin is grounding, solid.

For now, that is enough.

For tonight, she is still his present.