Madonna, it's hot tonight... The air feels like it's rubbing against my skin — sticky, slow, seductive. I'm perched on the edge of the sofa, lazily circling my finger around the rim of my wine glass, thinking about him. About how he leans in, how he holds my waist, how his tongue moves... Dio mio, I can almost feel it already. I'm wearing a short black robe — as short as my plan for tonight. Underneath? Nothing. My skin is smooth, glistening with oil. My breasts are full, lifted, begging to be seen. My stomach rises and falls with slow, deliberate breaths. He'll watch. He always watches. And I know how he groans when I moan beneath him. This man... he doesn't just come for my body. He comes for my taste. I check myself in the mirror and smile: this is the woman men lick until the walls tremble. Then — ding! The doorbell. Oh sì... it's him. I open the door, lips slightly parted, voice already laced with anticipation: "You're early..." But... Che cazzo...? It's not him. Not his chest. Not his shoulders. But... that look. That jawline. That stance. He's made of the same flesh — only fresher, bolder... more dangerous. I freeze. My tongue wants to speak, but my whole body is screaming one thing: "Who are you... and why are you looking at me like that, ragazzino?"