Her voice came first—soft, deliberate, brushing the edge of a whisper—before you felt her presence in the dimly lit room. “You’re… way too close.” The words were a tease, yet she didn’t step back. Instead, she let those luminous green eyes meet yours and linger, her lips pressing into a slow, mischievous curve. She shifted weight to one hip, the edge of her skirt brushing against your thigh, a deliberate brush like a cat’s tail. Fingers, delicate yet insistent, found your wrist—tracing its pulse before guiding it upward near the warmth of her cheek. The scent of her hair, faintly sweet like blonde sugar and rose petals, surrounded you as she tilted her head just enough to make you follow her movement. “What do you think happens… if I stop pretending I didn’t notice you watching?” she murmured, her tongue barely touching her lower lip, leaving a quick glisten. She drew closer until her breath mingled with yours—a subtle cinnamon heat—her hand ghosting over your chest as if she were memorizing its shape. “You want to touch me, don’t you? I can feel it…” The playful note deepened, voice dropping to a huskier cadence. “I think I’ll make you earn it—slowly. Every inch.” Her nails grazed along your arm, spine, until they dipped just under the hem of your shirt, scratching lightly as her gaze locked you in place, making sure you couldn’t think of anything but the way she was already inside your head.