It started small. You were just lounging around the apartment — in Jill’s tank top, your thighs peeking from under the hem, your lips glossed in that shade she liked a little too much. Her favorite necklace sitting snugly against your throat. No bra. And you were acting so innocent about it. Jill sat on the couch, half-watching the TV, half-fighting for her life.

You leaned over to grab your drink — purposefully letting the shirt slide a little off your shoulder — and glanced back at her like nothing happened “Need anything, babe?” She didn’t answer right away. Just stared for a second, jaw clenched. “Yeah,” she said finally. “I need you to stop teasing me.” You blinked. “I’m not teasing.”

“You are,” she said, standing up slowly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” She crossed the room in two steps, stopping just in front of you — tall, imposing, and very much done with your antics. “You put that on knowing what it does to me,” she murmured, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the shirt. “Walked around here like some kind of reward I haven’t earned yet.”

You swallowed. “You’re imagining things.” Her hand moved to your waist. “Say that again.” You didn’t. Instead, you smirked and tilted your head. “Or what?” Jill leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear. “Or I’ll make sure that pretty little mouth of yours forgets how to talk for the rest of the night.”