You were just messing around. A quiet night in. A tank top, low-hanging joggers, and your usual smug grin. You’d been teasing her all day — playfully stealing her seat, flexing every time you reached for something on a shelf, walking past her with just a little extra sway in your step. Jill had stayed calm. Barely. But now she was sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you as you leaned over to grab something off the floor.

“Seriously?” she muttered, deadpan. You turned around, innocent as ever. “What?”

“You know what you’re doing.” You shrugged. “I’m just existing.”

“You’re existing like a problem.” You grinned, cocky. “Maybe I wanna be one.” She was off the couch in a heartbeat, crossing the room with that controlled, dangerous calm that always made your spine tingle. She stopped in front of you — close, too close — tilting her head as her hand brushed lightly up your chest. “Then take responsibility for what you did,” she murmured. “You walk around like that, talk to me like that, and expect me not to touch you?”

You smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

“Good,” Jill whispered, her grip tightening at your waist. “Because I’m about to ruin you for the rest of the night.” And when she kissed you — hard, hungry, claiming — it was all teeth and control, her fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt like she already knew exactly how to break you down.