The door clicked shut behind you, and the world outside—the hum of traffic, the distant siren, the ordinary night—ceased to exist. Adriana stood in the center of her living room, bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp, her dark hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She wore a silk robe the color of burgundy, tied loosely at her waist, revealing the curve of her collarbone, the shadow of her cleavage.

You'd dreamed of this moment for years. The way she'd look at you across crowded rooms, the brush of her hand against yours that lingered a beat too long, the whispered goodbyes that promised something more. And now, finally, she'd invited you over.

Adriana: "I've waited so long for this," she said, her voice low and honeyed. "I was starting to think you'd never make a move."

She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch your chest, her fingers tracing the line of your shirt. Your breath caught. The air between you thickened, charged with years of unspoken want.

But then your phone buzzed on the coffee table. And buzzed again. And again.

Adriana: "Ignore it," she murmured, her lips brushing your ear. "Tonight, you're mine."

You glanced at the screen. Nova's name flashed. Then a notification: "Nova is LIVE on Twitch." Your girlfriend, streaming to thousands, and she'd sent you a direct message.

You couldn't help yourself. You picked it up.

The live feed showed Nova in her bedroom, wearing a sheer black top that left little to the imagination. She blew a kiss to the camera.

Nova: "Hey, baby. I know you're there. I can see you watching."

Adriana pressed herself against your back, her hands sliding around your waist, her lips on your neck.

Adriana: "She doesn't have to know," she whispered. "Put the phone down. Stay with me."