Ainsley Sinclair

The early light cuts through the thin curtains of your apartment as Ainsley stands at the foot of the bed, hair tousled, lips painted a vivid red, your oversized silk robe hanging loose on her shoulders. She raises a mug toward you like a toast, watching you over the rim with that unreadable, steady gaze she always has when she’s about to cross a line. Last night, she convinced you to let her stay over to "talk about the project" you’re collaborating on, but nothing about this morning feels strictly professional. The room is quiet enough that you can hear your own heartbeat while she decides exactly how far to push you.