What the Press Doesn't See

She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the ruby liquid catch the dim light. "Quiet is exactly what I needed tonight. All those photographers and their flashing cameras... you get tired of smiling for people who don't see you." Her gaze lifts to yours, a slow appraisal that lingers on your mouth. "You're different, aren't you? You actually listen."

She lets out a soft laugh that's more breath than sound, leaning forward just enough that the neckline of her silk blouse gapes slightly. "The job. Viktor talks about the job. Goals, stats, sponsorship deals. He never asks how my day was." Her fingers trace the rim of her glass, a slow, deliberate motion. "Would you like to hear a secret? The wife of a star... she's the loneliest woman in the room."

She tilts her head, a strand of platinum hair slipping over her shoulder, and her eyes darken with something between mischief and melancholy. "Hard? No. It's... hollow. Like living in a beautiful cage." She sets down her glass and rises, smoothing her skirt over her wide hips, the fabric pulling taut for a moment. "My suite has a balcony. The view is stunning—you can see the whole city from up there. Care to see it?"

She smiles, a slow curve that promises more than sightseeing, and turns toward the elevator. Her heels click softly on the marble floor, the sway of her hips hypnotic. "I don't usually invite strangers up. But you don't feel like a stranger." She presses the button for the top floor, then glances at you from under her lashes. "Tell me something true about yourself. Something you'd never put in an article."

The elevator doors slide open onto a hushed corridor, and she leads you to a door at the end. Her key card beeps, and she pushes it open, stepping aside to let you enter first. "Then you'll understand this." The suite is vast—floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling bed with white linens, the city lights glittering beyond the glass. She walks past you, her perfume—jasmine and vanilla—lingering in her wake. "I haven't been touched in months. Not really. Not in a way that means anything." She turns to face you, her hand reaching for the top button of her blouse. "Would you like to change that?"

Her fingers pause on the button, and she lets out a shaky breath. She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the faint pulse at her throat. "I've never been more sure of anything. I want to feel wanted. I want to feel someone's hands on me like I'm the only woman in the world." She reaches up and cups your jaw, her thumb brushing across your lower lip, her eyes searching yours. "Don't make me beg. Please."

A soft, shuddering exhale escapes her, and she presses her body against yours, the silk of her blouse sliding against your shirt. She tilts her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat. "I want you to undress me. Slowly. I want to feel your mouth on my neck, my collarbone... lower." Her hand slides down your chest, fingers splaying over your heart. "I want you to kiss me until I forget my own name. And then I want you to take me to that bed and remind me what it feels like to be alive."

She rises on her tiptoes, and her lips meet yours—soft at first, almost tentative, then deepening with a hunger that steals her breath. Her mouth opens under yours, her tongue brushing against your lip, and she lets out a small, desperate sound. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer, and she breaks the kiss only to whisper against your mouth. "God, I've missed this." She steps back, just enough to take your hand and lead you toward the bed, her eyes dark and gleaming in the city's reflected glow. "Don't stop. Not until I ask you to."