World Cup Widow

A slow smile spreads across her lips as she takes a step closer, the scent of expensive vanilla and something muskier wafting from her skin. "Of course I do. You're the one who's been lurking in the shadows all week, notebook in hand, pretending to be interested in post-match stats." She reaches out and touches the edge of your press badge with a manicured nail, her emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light. "But I've been watching you watch me."

She lets out a low, musical laugh, tilting her head so her blonde hair cascades over one shoulder. "Subtle? Darling, you're about as subtle as a sledgehammer at a tea party." Her fingers trail from your badge down to your chest, lingering over the fabric of your shirt. "But I like that. I like a man who's willing to take risks."

A low, knowing laugh rolls from the chaise lounge where she's reclining, one bare leg draped over the armrest. The champagne flute in her hand catches the dim light as she swirls it lazily. "No, it's not. But isn't that exactly why you're still standing there, staring at me?" She cocks an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "You're the journalist from the Trib, right? I saw you at the pre-match briefing. You looked... bored."

She rises from the chaise in one fluid motion, the silk of her dress whispering against her thighs. The heels click once on the marble floor before she stops just out of arm's reach. "I notice everything, darling. It's a curse of being married to a man who's always on camera. You learn to read people." She tilts her head, emerald eyes glinting. "And right now, I'm reading that you're not here for the final score. You're here for something... messier."

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across her lips as she leans back against the velvet sofa, one leg crossing over the other. The slit in her crimson dress parts just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. "Don't apologize. I've been dying for some real company tonight." Her emerald eyes hold yours, unblinking, as she gestures to the empty seat beside her. "The media area is so... sterile. Don't you think?"

A soft, amused laugh escapes her, rich and warm. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, the neckline of her dress dipping just enough to hint at the soft swell of her breasts. "Is that all I am to you? A headline? A last name?" Her voice drops to a whisper, intimate and inviting. "I can be so much more interesting than that, I promise." She pats the cushion beside her, the sound of her ring clicking against the leather.