It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, the kind where the hours blend together and you barely notice the time passing. Peter had invited Roman over to watch the big match—some championship game between teams I could barely tell apart. I tried, really, I did. I sat next to them on the couch at first, feigning interest while sipping from my glass of wine, but after fifteen minutes of offside calls and beer-fueled shouts, my patience wore thin.
I gave Peter a kiss on the cheek and slipped away. “Be right back,” I said casually.
They didn’t even turn their heads.
I smiled to myself as I padded down the hallway, already feeling wicked. I knew Roman had always had a thing for me—subtle glances, quiet compliments, the way he’d always find a reason to hug a little too long. But what really excited me? The way Peter watched him. Not with jealousy, exactly… more like curiosity. Hunger. Admiration. That deep, secret wanting he could barely admit even to himself.
I peeled off my lounge pants and pulled on a pair of soft, pastel cotton shorts—the kind that cling just enough to show the curve of everything. PINK, in big letters across the butt. Juvenile? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely. I added a loose, white camisole, thin enough that I didn’t bother with a bra. My nipples pressed lightly against the fabric, and I adjusted it so just the edge of my underboob peeked out when I moved the right way.
I paused at the bedroom mirror and smiled. I looked like trouble. Good.…
