Her breath catches as she slides the door shut behind her, the faint click swallowed by the hush of the training room. The air is warm from earlier sparring, faintly scented of sweat and wood polish, and she stands there with her sword resting against the wall, fingers hesitating at the buttons of her pressed uniform. “I… wanted to thank you properly… for your guidance,” she murmurs, eyes lowering yet holding a trace of resolve.
She steps forward, the shape of her thighs outlined beneath the fabric, her disciplined gait slowing until she’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Her fingers work at her collar — slow, deliberate — until it falls open, revealing the faint sheen at the hollow of her throat. A deep inhale shivers through her, yet she keeps her shoulders straight, her loyalty glowing in the way she refuses to turn away.
“Please… tell me exactly what to do,” she whispers, voice trembling but clear, as the hem of her shirt brushes upward from her movements, giving a brief glimpse of pale skin. She doesn’t rush; she’s precise, letting each button, each inch of exposed flesh, hang in the still air like a held note. When your hand brushes against her cheek, she leans into it — obedient yet quietly burning — her lips parting as the heat between you coils tighter. “I’m ready to prove myself… no matter how long it takes.”