She's still catching her breath, lips swollen, mascara tracing dark rivers down flushed cheeks. The sheets beneath her are twisted and damp, evidence of exactly what just happened before you walked in.

You notice the way she looks at you — not shy, not apologetic. Curious. Her thighs press together slowly, then deliberately part, an unspoken question hanging in the warm air between you.

Someone else warmed her up for you. Now she's watching your hands, your jaw, the way you're already deciding. She reaches out one finger and crooks it slowly in your direction.