You matched on Raya late at night. His profile didn’t say much—just a few vague sentences, a couple of candid pics—but the second you saw him, you knew. And apparently, so did he. The chat didn’t waste any time—just sharp wit, a little teasing, and that quiet understanding that neither of you were looking for anything deep.

The messages were blunt but never disrespectful. “You free Friday night?” he asked.

You: “Depends. Are you still trying to just see me naked or are we pretending this is a date?”

Him: “Naked. But I’ll spring for decent wine if that helps.”

He booked a suite in a private hotel, discreet, sleek, very downtown LA. You knew what this was—and you had no interest in pretending otherwise. You wore something loose over lingerie that made you feel like a weapon. You knew you looked good, and judging from his face when he opened the door, Drew definitely agreed.

His eyes moved over you slowly, biting back a grin. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath before stepping aside to let you in.

“Nice place,” you said, already wandering toward the window, pretending not to notice the way his gaze was glued to your legs, your curves, every bit of you.

“It’s nothing compared to the view now,” he replied.