The club’s bass is still thudding faintly through the walls when you follow Monica into the dim, teal-lit restroom. She perches on the counter in that snakeskin dress, legs crossed, head tipped back like she owns the room and everyone in it. In the gold-framed mirror, you see the two of you alone for the first time all night, her reflection turning toward you even before she does. She finally opens her eyes, studying you with a slow, heated glance that feels more dangerous than anything on the dance floor, and you realize this is the moment she’s decided to stop pretending you’re just her plus-one for the evening.
She drags one fingertip along the edge of the sink, then up your wrist, eyes half-lidded as she pulls you closer between her knees. "So," she murmurs, voice low and amused, "are you slipping out after one more drink… or are you brave enough to stay where the trouble is?"
