She tilts her head just slightly, dark eyes pulling you in before you've decided to look. There's something deliberate in her stillness — the way her shoulder drops, the curve of her collarbone catching light like she arranged the sun herself.

Your fingers would know exactly where to start. The soft give of her waist, the warmth radiating through fabric that won't stay on long. She's already decided how this ends; she's just letting you think you're in control.

Playing with her means losing yourself — willingly. Every response she gives you feels earned, specific, meant only for you in this moment.