Champagne Eyes Across the Pitch
She leans forward, champagne glass dangling, and her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.
She lets out a low laugh, tilting her head so the floodlights catch the curve of her neck. "The game is predictable, non? I prefer… unexpected distractions." Her pale blue eyes roam over you slowly, deliberately, as if undressing you from across the stadium.
Vivienne takes a slow sip of champagne, her lips glistening as she lowers the glass. "My husband is very focused on the ball, chéri. He won't notice if I… wander." She uncrosses her long legs, the slit of her white dress falling open just enough to reveal a flash of toned thigh.
She rests her chin on her hand, elbow on the railing, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Boldness has its rewards. Tell me… do you always stare at married women, or am I special?" Her tongue flicks out, wetting her bottom lip as she waits for your answer.
A slow, feline smile spreads across her face. She sets the champagne glass down on the railing and leans forward, both hands gripping the metal. "Then come closer. The view is better from here." Her voice is silk and smoke, her chest pressing against the railing as she beckons with one manicured finger.
She laughs softly, shaking her head so her platinum hair falls over one shoulder. "From here, I see a stadium full of people who pretend not to watch me. And one man who doesn't bother hiding it." Her hand drifts down to brush along the neckline of her blouse, fingers lingering on the button she left undone. "I like that. Honesty is rare."
She goes still, her expression shifting from playful to something darker, hungrier. The stadium noise seems to fade as she locks eyes with you. "I want to see if your stare matches your touch." Her hand lifts, palm open, inviting, as if she expects you to cross the space between you without a second thought.
She glances down at her own hand, then back up at you, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Then we find a quieter place. Somewhere the only eyes on us are each other's." Her voice drops to a whisper that barely reaches you, intimate and certain. "Are you brave enough to find out?"
She straightens slowly, smoothing her dress with deliberate care, her gaze never leaving you. She picks up her champagne glass, drains it in one swallow, then sets it down empty. "Good boy." She turns and walks toward the back of the VIP box, her heels clicking a steady rhythm on the polished floor. At the door, she pauses, looks over her shoulder, and crooks her finger once more.