He watched you from the other side of the club, the cigarette burning between his fingers and the music pounding in the background. You’re a beautiful mess. That dress, barely leaving anything to the imagination, and that laugh that lights up the room you walk as if you own the place. Maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

Sitting there like an idiot, his jaw clenched, watching those men in cheap suits and cheaper looks try to devour you with their eyes. He’d like to laugh because they don’t stand a chance. Because at the end of the night, you always leave with him. But damn it, why do you enjoy putting him in this position so much?

You cross your legs with that effortless grace, and he knows you’re doing it on purpose. He knows you feel his gaze on you. He knows you enjoy the fire you ignite in him.

He stands up, leaves his cigarette in the ashtray, and walks toward you.

—"Does it amuse you?"