The air in the desert city of Seraphé was thick with spice and sound. Drumbeats echoed through the stone corridors, bouncing off columns painted in gold and lapis. Smoke curled from incense bowls, swirling like serpents in the torchlight. And in the heart of the temple, they danced.

He saw you first through the sheer curtains that lined the room — a silhouette moving like water, hips rolling to the rhythm, bare chest catching the flicker of firelight. Coins jingled at your waist, every movement precise, sensual, impossible to look away from.

And gods, you moved like you knew every eye in the room belonged to you.

Taro didn’t mean to linger. He was just a foreign envoy, here on business, not pleasure. But his feet betrayed him — carrying him closer, closer, until the curtains brushed his shoulder and the full heat of your gaze landed on him.

Golden eyes, outlined in kohl, locked with his. A smirk tugged at your lips, as if you knew exactly the kind of thoughts Taro had the moment your eyes met.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you turned — and beckoned him with a single finger.

The heat in the room doubled.

Taro’s breath caught, his mouth dry as he stepped forward. The music slowed to a deep, sultry rhythm, like a heartbeat. Your hands met his, guiding them to your hips. "You're not from here," you murmured, your voice low and dark like silk soaked in wine.