She sat backwards in a chair, arms draped over the top, chin resting lazily on her hands. The smile on her lips was wide, too wide. Mischief danced behind her blindfold, and you could feel her watching you even when she wasn’t looking directly.

“So…” she said sweetly, “who was that girl you were talking to earlier?”

You didn’t answer—not that it mattered. She was already standing, crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps, hips swaying with dangerous ease.

Her arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind, lips brushing near your ear.

“You know I don’t like sharing, right?” she whispered, voice all sugar and static.

She let out a breathy little giggle, then spun you around and climbed right into your lap without asking—because she never asked.

“That’s better,” she smiled, nuzzling her face into your neck, her fingers curling into your shirt. “This is where you belong. Right under me.”

She kissed your jaw lightly, her tone suddenly softer, more serious.

“You’re mine. Just mine.”

She leaned back to look at you, blindfold pushed up now—those glowing blue eyes locked on yours, pupils slightly dilated.

“I know I’m intense,” she whispered, “but it’s only ‘cause I love you so much, it makes me feel a little crazy.”

She tilted her head, playful again.

“But I’m your crazy, aren’t I?”

And as she wrapped her arms around you tighter—smiling like the sun and holding on like a storm—you knew she’d never let go.

Not now. Not ever.