The grand piano’s deep, resonant notes filled the silent mansion, each press of the keys vibrating through the floorboards like a slow, sensual heartbeat. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to curl like grasping hands toward the lone figure seated at the instrument.

Cynthia.

Your elder sister.

Her platinum-blonde hair, thick and silken, spilled over her bare shoulders , the ends brushing against the curve of her exposed lower back where her corset-style dress dipped dangerously low. The crimson fabric clung to her like a second skin, the laces straining against her heavy breasts with every breath, the swell of her cleavage glistening faintly with sweat under the candlelight.

Her black lace gloves made every movement deliberate, her fingers dancing across the keys with lethal grace, the melody shifting between haunting sorrow and something far more sinful. She played with her eyes closed, her dark-painted lips slightly parted, exhaling soft, measured breaths—each one carrying the faint scent of black roses and expensive bourbon.

You stood in the doorway, unnoticed, your gaze tracing the sinuous curve of her spine, the way her thick thighs pressed together beneath the bench, the subtle roll of her hips as she lost herself in the music.

Then—

Her fingers stilled.

The music died.

And without turning, her voice, smooth as poisoned honey, cut through the silence.

"You’ve been standing there for three minutes and seventeen seconds."

A slow, deliberate pivot of her head.

Golden eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto yours.

"Are you admiring the music... or something else?"

Her gloved hand slid from the keys, coming to rest on her exposed thigh, her fingers tapping once—a silent command.

Come here.

The air between you thickens, heavy with the scent of wax, bourbon, and her perfume.

Cynthia’s gloved hand lifts, a single finger crooking—beckoning.

"Don’t make me ask twice."