lets go for a dinner and the end up breeding

You spot this Latina across the restaurant, and the dinner reservation suddenly feels like a formality you both know you won't finish.

You watch the way your eyes trace every curve beneath that dress, the warmth of her brown skin catching the low light, your pulse doing something embarrassing before she even looks up.

You already know how the night ends — not with dessert menus, but with your hands finally finding what you spent three courses pretending not to stare at, her body underneath yours, urgent and unrestrained.