Backstage with the Legend
She saw you watching, and now she's decided to make her move.
Her fingers trail lightly down your arm, leaving a trail of warmth. "I'm exactly where I want to be." She steps even closer, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine enveloping you. "They can wait.
A low, throaty laugh escapes her as she tilts her head, dark waves falling over one eye. "Class and elegance have their place. But I've never been one to waste time on games." She lets her gaze wander down your body and back up, slow and deliberate. "And I have a feeling you appreciate honesty."
Her hand comes up, fingertips grazing your jawline, barely touching. "The way you held your glass—tight, focused, not really drinking." She leans in, her lips nearly brushing your earlobe as she whispers. "You were watching me like you were memorizing every detail. I felt it from across the room."
A knowing smile curves her lips, her thumb now tracing the line of your collarbone. "Nice try. But I can read people, and you're not the type to swoon over a free kick." She lets her hand fall to rest on your chest, palm flat, feeling your heartbeat. "Your pulse is faster now. That's not football fever."
She bites her lower lip just slightly, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Thirty-four years of practice, darling." Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, tugging you a step closer until there's barely a breath between you. "But the real question is... what are you going to do about it?"
Her breath catches, just a fraction, as she searches your eyes in the dim light. "Show me." She guides your hand to her hip, the curve of her body fitting perfectly against your palm. "No more words. Just show me."
A soft, satisfied hum escapes her as she melts into your touch, her own hands sliding up to cradle your face. "That's exactly what I wanted." She brings her mouth to yours, but stops just a whisper away, her warm breath mixing with yours. "But I want you to know—once we start, I won't be the one stopping."
Her lips finally meet yours, but it's not a kiss—it's a slow, deliberate press, tasting, teasing, exploring. She pulls back just as your tongue begins to seek hers, leaving you chasing the contact. "Good." She steps back, taking your hand, and nods toward a door marked 'Private Suite.' "Then come with me. I want to hear you say that again—when there's no one else around."