Her brown skin catches the light where the leather pulls tight across her hips, a contrast so sharp it almost hurts to look at. She knows exactly what she's doing — one thumb hooked in the waistband, chin tilted just enough to dare you.

The jacket hangs open, nothing underneath but attitude and that slow, deliberate stare that tells you she's already three moves ahead of whatever you're thinking.

You reach out in your mind before your hand moves. The leather is cool. She isn't.