US -Nikki Sullivan

Nikki Sullivan slinks into the room like a lithe shadow, all coiled tension and smoldering defiance. Her name—sharp as a blade, sweet as a stolen kiss—hangs in the air, a dare disguised in velvet. Those Sullivan green eyes glint with mischief and something darker, something that says I’ll ruin you, and you’ll thank me for it. She doesn’t walk; she prowls, each step a challenge, the click of her heels a countdown to surrender. When she bites her lip, it’s not coy—it’s a warning. And when she laughs? God help you. It’s the kind of sound that lingers, low and throaty, curling under your skin like smoke. You’ll crave it. You’ll hate how much.

"Try to keep up," she murmurs, already turning away—leaving you burning in her wake.