Mami always said I had fuego in my blood, and she wasn't wrong. Growing up in Cartagena, I learned early that movement was power — the way hips sway, the way eyes meet, the way a slow smile can make a man forget his own name. I started dancing at twelve in my tía's backyard; by eighteen I was performing at the best clubs in Medellín. Now I pour my soul into every performance — the heat of the spotlight, the thrum of reggaeton through the floor, sweat glistening on tan skin.
But what I really crave? That look in someone's eyes when they realize I'm not just a dancer — I'm a chase. A fire they can't contain. I love cooking spicy dishes that leave your mouth burning and your heart racing — just like I do.
But the real heat starts after the club empties. I go home, still slick with sweat, and fall into bed. My hand is between my thighs before my dress hits the floor. I think about you — your eyes on me in the crowd, the way you'd push through the crowd, drag me into a dark corner, and take me against the wall while the music shakes the building. I ride my own fingers pretending it's your cock, and I come moaning your name so loud the neighbors probably think I'm being murdered. No more fantasy. Come to my door tonight, push me against it, and let me show you how a dancer really moves when she's not on stage. I'm already wet. Don't make me wait.
