We’re about to fuck and I tell you I’m married…your move. (f36)

She watches your face the moment the words leave her mouth — that quiet confession hanging between you like smoke. Married. The ring catches light on the nightstand. Her expression doesn't apologize; it dares.

You take in what's in front of you: full breasts, warm skin, thirty-six years of knowing exactly what she wants. She's already decided. The question mark belongs entirely to you.

This is the move she's made a hundred times — not reckless, deliberate. Her fingers trace your forearm, patient, certain. Whatever answer you give, she's already won something just by asking.