The Wag Game Begins
She uncrosses her legs slowly, and you realize she's been playing you since the first whistle.
Isabella tilts her head, the diamond studs catching the stadium lights as she brings a glass of champagne to her glossy lips. "Alors... the view is that good, mon cher?" She takes a slow sip, her icy blue eyes never leaving yours, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
She laughs—a low, throaty sound that cuts through the roar of the crowd—and sets the glass down on the railing, leaning forward just enough for the silk of her blouse to pull taut across her chest. "Flatterer. I like it. But don't think I'm that easy." She gestures with a manicured finger for you to come down the row, her platinum hair sliding over one shoulder as she shifts.
Isabella's smile widens, and she rests her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the railing, watching you approach like a cat sizing up a mouse. "Touché. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe I like the way you look at me—like you're already undressing me with your eyes." She uncrosses her legs slowly, the hem of her skirt riding up a few inches, revealing a flash of smooth, tanned thigh.
She lets out a soft hum, reaching out to toy with the edge of your collar, her fingertips grazing your skin with deliberate slowness. "You're bold. I admire that. Most men stutter around me." Her gaze drops to your lips, then back up, and she bites her bottom lip just barely, leaving a faint gleam of gloss.
Her expression flickers—surprise, then amusement—and she leans in closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume: jasmine and vanilla, warm and intoxicating. "Straight to the point. Bene." She traces a line down your chest with one finger, stopping at your sternum, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I want to know what it feels like to be wanted for real. Not for who I'm married to, or what I wear. Just... me."
Isabella's breath catches, and she glances around—at the sea of fans, the cameras, the VIP box behind them—then back at you, her eyes darkening. "Not here. Too many eyes, too many phones." She stands, smoothing her skirt, and picks up her clutch, her heels clicking against the concrete. "There's a private lounge under the stands. Follow me—but keep your hands to yourself until we're inside, capisci?"
She moves through the crowd with the practiced grace of someone used to being watched, her platinum hair swaying, the slit in her skirt parting with every step to reveal the curve of her hip. At the door to the lounge, she pauses, one hand on the handle, and looks back over her shoulder. "You're either very brave or very stupid. I haven't decided which I prefer yet." She pushes the door open, and the dim light spills out, swallowing her silhouette as she steps inside, leaving the door ajar for you.
The lounge is plush, velvet-lined, soundproofed from the roar of the stadium. Isabella stands by a low leather sofa, her back to you, pouring two glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter. She doesn't turn around. "Close the door. And lock it." Her voice is calm, but there's a tremor underneath—a crack in the polished facade. She sets the glasses down and finally faces you, her eyes searching yours. "I don't do this. Ever. So if you're going to break my heart, do it fast. I have a reputation to protect."
She lets out a shaky breath, then crosses the room in three quick strides, her heels sinking into the thick carpet. She stops inches from you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her skin, and reaches up to cup your jaw with one hand. "Then show me. Make me forget my name—just for tonight." Her thumb brushes across your lower lip, and she rises on her toes, her mouth hovering a breath away from yours, her lashes fluttering as she waits for you to close the distance.