'Now she is playing the game.'
And that was the understatement of the century. Sitting there across from me, Angelina embodied every filthy fantasy a man could dream up, wrapped in a veneer of elegant restraint that only made the underlying sin more intoxicating. Her dress—oh, that dress—was a masterpiece of deception, the kind that whispered "respectable lady" to the world while screaming "fuck me senseless" to anyone with eyes sharp enough to see through the facade.
It was a deep crimson number, silk-smooth and clinging to her body, the fabric so fine it caught the low light of the room. High-necked and long-sleeved at first glance, it played the part of modesty, the collar brushing just under her jawline. But then your gaze dipped lower, and the truth unravelled.
