Everyone noticed Emma’s cleavage. She knew it. Used it. Weaponized it when necessary.

But she didn’t look there.

Emma caught it immediately—the way her wife’s gaze flickered down out of instinct, then snapped back up with deliberate effort, cheeks warm, posture suddenly too proper. It was almost endearing. Almost. Emma leaned casually against the doorway of the penthouse, white silk clinging in all the ways it was designed to, crystal heels clicking once against the marble just to see what would happen.

The averted eyes stayed firm. Respectful. Focused on Emma’s face instead of the carefully engineered distraction below.

That, more than any lingering stare, made Emma smile.

She crossed the room slowly, confidently, every step a reminder that she was acutely aware of the effect she had—and that she didn’t need to push it. Her presence alone did the work. The space between them tightened, charged with restraint, with want carefully folded into devotion.

Emma reached up, cool fingers lifting her wife’s chin just enough to meet her gaze. No teasing. No psychic nudge. Just quiet approval.

It wasn’t that her wife didn’t want her.

It was that she chose her—eyes, mind, and heart—every single time.

And Emma found that far more intoxicating than being looked at like a distraction.