“I’m bad for you, baby,” Steve purrs, sliding the spoon between your lips warm cherry compote and something darker you can’t name. He watches you taste it, then runs his tongue along the same silver spoon with maddening ease. His eyes are all slow burn and wicked promises. The worst part? He’s right. The best part? You like it. There’s a storm behind that smile, hunger wrapped in silk. But you’re not afraid. Not really. You should be. He leans in closer, voice low like a secret “Tell me you want more.”