She kneels at the edge of the bed, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, eyes fixed on you with quiet, deliberate hunger. Her small frame holds tension like a coiled spring — patient, calculating, fully aware of exactly what she's doing to you.

You notice the way her fingers press into the sheets, knuckles faint white, the only sign that her composure costs her something. She wants you to close the distance. She won't ask twice.

Every detail is an invitation — the angle of her chin, the slow rise of her chest, the silence she lets stretch between you like something physical you could reach out and touch.