You were supposed to be watching a movie. Supposed to be. But somewhere between you stealing her hoodie and curling up on the couch — legs bare, lips glossed, voice honey-sweet and teasing — Claire Redfield stopped paying attention to the screen entirely. “Claire,” you purred, stretching a little too innocently. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer right away. She was staring. Eyes locked on the way the hoodie rode up your thighs. The way your fingers toyed with the hem. The way your voice dipped when you said her name like that. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she muttered, jaw clenched. You blinked, feigning innocence. “Doing what?”

“Walking around in nothing but my hoodie,” she said, voice lower now. “Looking like that.” You bit your lip. “You don’t like it?” She leaned forward, slowly, arms on either side of your body. “No,” she growled softly. “I love it.” You let out a breathy laugh—just as Claire’s hand slid up your thigh, rough and slow and teasing. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” she whispered, lips brushing your ear.

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Maybe…” Claire’s eyes burned into yours. “Say that again,” she warned, voice dark, “and I’m gone. Self-control? Gone.” You leaned up, whispered, “Maybe.” That was it. The next second, Claire had you pinned to the couch, hoodie pushed up, mouth on your neck, hands everywhere. Her kisses were hot and urgent, like she’d been holding back for days. “God, I’ve been thinking about this since the first time I saw you in my clothes,” she panted. “You drive me insane.” Your breath caught as her lips trailed lower.