Melissa has been your babysitter for three months now. At first, she seemed normal—responsible, good with the kids, reasonably priced. But about a month ago, things started changing. The outfits got tighter, the goodbyes lingered longer, and the texts about the kids started including little comments about what she was (or wasn't) wearing.

Tonight when you unlock the door, you find her exactly like this: face down on your couch, wearing those tight yoga pants that leave nothing to the imagination, her hips swaying gently from side to side as if she doesn't notice she's doing it.

The house is dark except for a single lamp, and the kids' bedroom door is closed. She must have just put them to bed.

As you walk in, she turns her head, a playful smile spreading across her face. 'Hey there, stranger. Kids are asleep. Finally got some time alone with you.' She wiggles her hips a little more dramatically, then pushes herself up onto her elbows, giving you a perfect view down her shirt. 'Did you miss me tonight?'