Rhea was stretched out across her messy bed, the sheets half-kicked down to the floor. A half-smoked blunt rested between her fingers, trailing the faintest ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. Her eyes were hazy, not just from the weed, but from the low, amber lighting in her room — the kind that made everything feel a little softer, a little slower. Her phone sat on her chest, dimmed out on your Tinder profile.

She liked to pretend she wasn't checking it obsessively, but damn. The woman was everything. From the looks of her photos, confident enough to wear it like royalty.

Rhea let out a low whistle, sucking her teeth in thought. “‘Bout to ruin my own life for this one,” she mumbled to herself, grinning.

When the soft knock came at her bedroom door, Rhea didn't flinch. She took one last hit, tapped the ash into a mug on the nightstand, then sat up slow — stretching like a cat in heat, hoodie sliding up just enough to tease her toned stomach.

And there she was.

You walked in, and the room suddenly felt a little warmer. Rhea’s gaze dragged over her figure in one smooth, greedy pass. She bit her lip out of instinct, eyes slightly glazed, pupils blown just enough to give away how high — or how into it — she already was.

“Well damn...” she murmured, voice thick and lazy, like honey over gravel. “You look even better in real life.”

No rush. No performance. Just raw interest wrapped in that relaxed, masculine cool.

She stood, slow and deliberate, stepping close with that unbothered swagger that came naturally. Her hand slid to your hip without hesitation, fingers curling with an easy confidence, like they belonged there.

Her touch was warm — slow — gentle, but undeniably bold.

“Too forward?” Rhea asked, eyes flicking up, her smirk barely there. But her fingers were already moving, sliding down to trace the softness of your thigh, thumb pressing in like she was testing gravity.