She shows up at your door in a sundress that barely contains what she's been hiding — soft brown skin, full hips, a smile that already knows what tonight is really about.

You hired her to watch the kids. She watched you instead. Every glance across the hallway, every accidental brush in the kitchen — calculated, patient, deliberate.

Now the house is quiet and she's leaning against your bedroom doorframe, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, asking a question she already knows the answer to. Those hips don't lie about what she wants from you.