Sexual
It started as a joke—two glasses of wine, a little teasing. She’d come into my room wearing my shirt, laughing about how soft it was and how I should let her keep it.

“You look better in it than I do,” I admitted, laughing as I sipped my drink.

Her grin turned wicked. “You think so?” she asked, pulling the hem of the shirt up just enough to reveal the curve of her thighs.

I swallowed hard, my heart racing as she closed the distance between us. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her fingers brushed against my cheek, her touch soft but electric. “I think you know,” she said, her eyes flicking to my lips.

Before I could process what was happening, her lips were on mine, soft and insistent. The taste of wine lingered between us as she pushed me back against the bed, her hands sliding under my shirt, her nails grazing my skin.

I gasped against her mouth, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. “This is dangerous,” I murmured, but I didn’t stop her.

“Then why does it feel so good?” she whispered, her lips trailing down my neck as her hands explored every inch of me.