Collector, she thought, watching him slide those long fingers through the trainer's hair with the casual authority of someone who'd already catalogued her place in his inventory.
He's building a collection. Just like me.
She recognized the pattern. Or thought she did.
Pretty boy discovers he's pretty. Women fling themselves at him like lemmings with better hair. He catches them, uses them, discards them when the shine fades.
Oldest story in Paradise. Only variable was whose face was on the poster this season.
We're the same, she decided, a dark little thrill curling low in her belly. Two predators. Two collectors. He takes women. I take men. We both know the rules. We both play to win.
