The morning text still burned in my mind as I selected my outfit with precise intention: "Town square. Two o'clock. Show me what I'm coming home to." 

Each item was chosen for maximum effect: a cropped white T-shirt that barely reached my ribs and a skirt short enough to make my intentions clear. No undergarments. Nothing to hinder the afternoon breeze against my skin.

Exactly at two, I claimed the bench we'd discussed, south-facing, partially shaded by an elm tree, visible from his favourite coffee spot. The wood pressed firmly against my thighs as I settled into position, the rough texture a constant reminder of my exposure. Around me, the town square bustled with afternoon activity, students lounging on the grass, business people hurrying through on late lunch breaks, and tourists consulting maps.

None of them mattered. The man who pretended to read the financial section at the café across the square was the only one who mattered.

I checked my watch, 14:07.

Right on schedule. James was nothing if not punctual, even for our most impromptu arrangements. The thrill of our game rippled through me, a delicious shiver that hardened my nipples against the thin cotton covering them.

Casually, I crossed my legs, letting my skirt ride up another inch. His newspaper lowered just slightly, eyes flicking my way before returning to the print. But I caught the slight tensing of his shoulders, the way he shifted in his chair. He couldn't hide his reactions from me, not after three years together.

Playing my part to perfection, I leaned back against the bench, arching my spine deliberately. The movement pulled my shirt taut across my chest, my breasts straining against the fabric. I knew exactly how visible my hardened nipples were through the thin white cotton, like two pebbles pushing against tissue paper. The slight breeze made the sensation almost unbearable, each gust sending shocks of pleasure straight to my core.

The newspaper trembled visibly in his grip now.

Time to escalate. I uncrossed my legs slowly, allowing them to fall open just enough to reveal what lay beneath. The cool air rushed against my exposed flesh, making me acutely aware of how wet I'd become. I watched his eyes darken from across the square as he caught full sight of what I was showing him, completely bare, slick with arousal, the pink flesh visible even at this distance.

His coffee cup paused halfway to his lips, suspended in midair as his focus narrowed to the space between my thighs. I slid forward slightly on the bench, letting the rough wood grain press directly against my bare skin. The texture sent shivers racing up my spine, and I knew he could see how swollen and ready I was becoming under his gaze.

Power surged through me, heady and intoxicating. In public, surrounded by dozens of oblivious people, I controlled him completely. The wetness building between my legs made the bench slippery beneath me, my arousal leaving a visible mark on the wood.

I ran my fingertips along my inner thighs, tracing patterns upward until they disappeared beneath my skirt hem. His jaw clenched visibly, a muscle working beneath the stubble. I let one finger brush against my centre, just the lightest touch, enough to make my breath catch. His hands gripped the newspaper hard enough to crease the pages permanently.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" An elderly woman gestured to the space beside me.

"Not at all," I replied, smoothing my skirt with false modesty. "Please, join me."

The interruption only heightened the thrill. As the woman settled beside me, chatting about the warm weather, I caught James's frustrated expression. His carefully constructed composure cracked just enough for me to see the hunger underneath.

Perfect.

After ten minutes of polite conversation with my bench companion, I checked my watch again. Time for the next phase. With a friendly goodbye to the woman, I stood and stretched, giving James one final glimpse as my skirt shifted with the movement. I bent slightly to adjust my sandal, knowing the position offered him a clear view down my shirt, revealing I wore nothing underneath.

I strolled across the square, my path taking me directly past his table. Our eyes met for three electric seconds.

"The door's open," I murmured without breaking stride. "Don't make me wait."

His sharp intake of breath followed me as I continued walking, not looking back. The final piece of our game was set in motion.

Twenty minutes later, I heard his key in the door.

I'd positioned myself carefully on our living room sofa, legs arranged in the same provocative pose as on the park bench. The same outfit. The same deliberate exposure. But this time, no strangers to interrupt us. No public restraint necessary.

The door opened. James stood frozen in the entryway, briefcase slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers. His eyes darkened as they travelled over me.

"You're late," I chided softly.

"Traffic," he managed, voice rough. "Though I suspect you planned that too."

I smiled, letting my legs fall open another inch. "Perhaps."

He hadn't moved from the doorway, still drinking in the sight of me. Playing the same role he had in the square, hungry observer, maintaining distance. But here, the rules were different.

"Did you enjoy the show?" I asked, trailing my fingers along the edge of my skirt.

"You know I did." He loosened his tie with one finger, eyes never leaving mine. "Those twenty minutes felt like hours."

"Hours?" I echoed, sliding my hand beneath my skirt.

"Every second since I saw you on that bench," he clarified, his voice dropping lower. "Every second felt like torture."

"And what did you imagine during those torturous minutes?" I asked, threading my fingers through his hair as he finally moved toward me, dropping to his knees before the sofa.

His answer came not in words but in action, as his careful restraint finally, gloriously shattered.

Later, lying tangled together on the sofa, my skirt long discarded and his clothes scattered across the floor, I traced patterns on his chest.

"We should go to the coffee shop more often," he murmured against my hair.

I laughed, already planning our next public performance.

After all, practice makes perfect.