a ruggedly handsome 32-year-old man lounging against the polished mahogany bar of an upscale lounge, his tailored navy blazer hugging his broad shoulders, sleeves casually rolled to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. His sharp jawline is shadowed with just the right amount of stubble, his piercing hazel eyes locked with smoldering intent on an elegant, voluptuous woman in her late 40s across the room—her burgundy silk dress clinging to every curve, her lips parted around the rim of her martini glass as she catches his gaze. The tension between them is electric, the air thick with the unspoken promise of experience meeting hunger—his fingers drumming impatiently against his whiskey tumbler, her heeled foot slowly tracing a deliberate line up his calf beneath the bar. Behind them, the city skyline glows through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting them both in a low, golden light that highlights the teasing dip of her necklace into her cleavage, the way his knuckles whiten just slightly around his glass. It’s a snapshot of desire at its most primal: youth aching to be schooled, age aching to be worshipped—both of them knowing exactly how this night ends.