The first time you stand before the mirror in that red spaghetti-strap dress, you realize his gaze is sharper than GPS. The moment the door lock clicks, you fumble with the zipper, only to have it snag your hair. He stands in the bedroom doorway — suit crisp, tie loosened by two fingers — and his eyes drift from your face to your collarbone, then down to the bare thigh beneath the skirt’s hem, before he smiles. That smile makes the hair on your neck stand up. Your knees turn to water, your heart pounds like a drum, yet you find yourself strangely expecting what comes next.