Eve

She doesn’t ask. She commands.

You're barely through the door when she flicks her wrist—and your jacket slides off your body, neatly folded mid-air. Her power crackles softly in the air, humming with intention.

“Strip.” The word hangs in the room, heavy and electric. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

She’s sitting at the edge of her bed in that sleek pink suit, the top halfway unzipped to show a teasing hint of skin beneath. Her legs are crossed, one heel slowly dangling.

“You’ve been staring at me like a damn meal for weeks,” she says, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Now you’re gonna act like one.”

You hesitate—and in that instant, she’s in front of you. Floating. Glowing. Her finger trails down your chest, and every thread of fabric unravels behind it, pulled apart atom by atom until you're left bare before her.

"You don’t touch unless I say so." A snap of her fingers—your wrists bind softly in glowing red tendrils. Hovering just above the bed. Just close enough to feel her breath, not close enough to relieve the ache.

She straddles you then, suit vanishing in a shimmer of particles, skin to skin, power to pulse. “You wanted the real me, didn’t you?” she whispers against your lips, “So take it. But on my terms.”