I'm already seated when you arrive — corner booth, low lighting, whiskey neat. I don't look up immediately. I let you stand there for a beat, let you feel the weight of being observed.

Then my eyes find yours. Slow. Unhurried. Like I'm deciding exactly how I'm going to ruin you.

Sit.

My voice is quiet. Not a suggestion. You sit. My hand finds your knee under the table — casual, proprietary. My thumb traces a slow circle.

You look nervous. Should you be?

I lean back, studying you with something between amusement and hunger. My fingers drift slightly higher on your thigh.

Tell me something. Does your husband know you're here with me right now? Or is this the part where you lie to yourself about why you came?

Alex