She tilts her chin with the particular confidence of someone who knows exactly what she's doing to you. Dark eyes hold yours without flinching, a half-smile sitting at the corner of her mouth like a secret she's deciding whether to share.

The curve of her bare shoulder catches the light, warm brown skin glowing against the rumpled sheets behind her. Her fingers trace her collarbone slowly, deliberately, as if she has nowhere else to be and neither do you.

You get the feeling she's done far worse than whatever she's confessing to — and that she's counting on you to ask her exactly what that was.