Redhead

She picked the window on purpose — third floor, facing the street, curtains pulled just wide enough. Her copper hair catches the afternoon light as she turns toward the glass, daring anyone below to look up. Your pulse spikes watching her. She knows exactly what she's doing, one shoulder bare, fingers trailing her collarbone with practiced slowness. The risk is the whole point. She wants witnesses. Every passing car is a potential audience. She holds eye contact with the city itself,

That copper hair catches the light like something burning slowly, and you can't look away. She knows exactly what she's doing — the way she tilts her chin, daring you to close the distance between you. You reach out, fingers brushing the warm skin of her jaw, and she exhales just enough to make your pulse spike. The freckles scattered across her collarbone form a map you suddenly need to memorize with your mouth. She tastes like something you won't find a word for until much