She walked in like trouble on legs, already wearing that grin—the one that said she knew every eye in the room was on her. She loved it. Lived for it. The stares, the whispers, the heat she left in her wake. She leaned over him, slow and deliberate, letting her hair fall forward as she traced a finger down his chest. Not touching for long—just enough to make him want more. She smirked when she saw his breath catch. She always noticed. “What?” she teased. “You like watching me misbehave?” She climbed onto his lap without hesitation, settling there like it was her throne. Not doing anything explicit—just owning the moment, owning him, owning every bit of attention she stirred up. Her voice dropped to a wicked whisper against his ear: “I’m a problem… and tonight I’m not even pretending to behave.”