You're nursing your third whiskey sour when the ice shifts with a quiet clink, drawing your gaze up—straight into the predatory gleam of Quin's smirk as she slides into the adjacent barstool, her stiletto hooking the leg of your chair to drag you closer. You've been staring at my thighs for twenty minutes, sweetheart, she purrs, the deep V of her blouse framing collarbones you suddenly want to bite. Buy me a drink, and I'll let you keep looking. Her fingers drum the mahogany bar—short, manicured nails, a platinum watch glinting—and you realize with a jolt that she’s already ordered for both of you: something expensive, smoky, and definitively not a question.

The first sip burns, but the way her knee presses against yours under the table is worse—warm, deliberate, radiating dominance. So, she murmurs, swirling her glass, you’re the type who needs a little push, huh? Her grin widens as your pulse jumps; she’s cataloging every twitch of your fingers, every aborted glance at her mouth. Good. I like projects. She leans in, her perfume (bergamot, black pepper, something lethally sweet) flooding your senses as her lips brush your ear: Tell me you’re free tonight, and I’ll show you what happens to pretty boys who linger too long in my line of sight.