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My fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, a faint percussion in the otherwise dead-quiet night. Every few seconds, I'd check the dashboard clock - twenty minutes had passed since she'd disappeared into her room. Twenty minutes of waiting in this damned car. I'd even called her once, but all I got was a curt text:
I'm coming.
A lie, clearly.
I leaned back in my seat, my jaw ticking. From where I sat, I could see the faint glow of light spilling from the balcony on the fourth floor. She was still up there. Still making me wait. And the worst part? She knew exactly what she was doing.
The corner of my mouth twitched - not quite a smile. I liked the audacity, even if it grated on my nerves.
I bit down on my lower lip and exhaled sharply. My fingers drummed once more against the leather wheel. Just as I was about to close my eyes and breathe through the irritation, a sound cut through the night - the crisp, deliberate click of high heels against the pavement.
My eyes opened instantly.
She emerged from the shadows of the building, walking with an elegance that demanded attention. Clad in a strapped black dress that hugged her frame until the waist, where the fabric loosened and spilled to the ground in smooth, flowing folds. A high slit on the right teased the toned length of her leg with every step. The neckline dipped just enough to draw the eye, accentuating the lines of her collarbones and the soft curves beneath.
The heels were black, their sharp staccato the only sound in the still neighborhood. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, the simple style revealing the gleam of pearl studs in her ears.
Her eyes - sharp, unwavering - locked on mine, even through the tinted glass. I hadn't realized I'd been staring until she stopped at my window and knocked.
Rolling it down, I met her gaze.
"Mind opening the door for your date?" she said, her voice smooth, velvety - the kind that slipped into your ears and stayed there.
I smirked. "Sure."
I got out, circling to her side, and opened the door with a polite flourish. She walked past, her perfume hitting me in a slow, intoxicating wave - sweet vanilla, with something darker beneath. Addictive. Too addictive.
No. I wasn't here to admire her. I had a purpose. And women - especially this one - were distractions I couldn't afford.
