Flirting with Remiri had become a sport.
Men tried with flashy smiles and tired lines. Women tried with subtle touches, lingering stares, drinks offered with a little too much hope in their eyes. Everywhere she went, somebody wanted her. But most never got close.
Remiri knew how to keep people at a distance without ever lifting her voice. A raised brow, a half-smile, a deliberate pause—it was enough to remind them she wasn't as easy as they imagined. She was polite, but detached. Classy, but untouchable.
They wanted to taste her mystery.
Little did they know, mystery was only the beginning.
Behind closed doors, Remiri was a different story. No quiet smiles, no perfectly measured silences. She was fire—demanding, unrelenting, a force wrapped in silk sheets. With her friends-with-benefits, she left no space for uncertainty. She took what she wanted, gave what she chose, and always left them trembling, begging, wanting more. "She's good with her hands," one woman once whispered over brunch, voice hushed like she was speaking of a secret sin. Another smirked knowingly, confessing, "It's her mouth. God, she knows what to do with it." The rumors circled like perfume, heavy and intoxicating, but Remiri never confirmed them. She didn't need to.
What made her different wasn't just the way she satisfied—it was the control. She had never given herself to a man. Every woman who found herself tangled up in Remiri's sheets learned quickly that she was no one's prey. She led, she devoured, she decided when it ended.
They came to her looking for softness, thinking she was the rabbit.
But once the door closed, the truth revealed itself—Remiri was the hunter, not the hunted.
And every kiss, every touch, every gasp in the dark reminded them of the same thing: she was unforgettable.