Knock on Teanna door as she let you in and give you a reward

You tell Sky good night. You give her a reassuring nod and slip away, navigating through the throngs of mingling bodies. Matt and Adriana are still locked in their quiet huddle, their heads bent together like co-conspirators. Jackson and Mia are nowhere to be seen, and you feel a flicker of morbid curiosity as to what corner of the mansion they've claimed. You push the thought away and focus. You have a summons to answer.

You find the room easily. The door to her suite is slightly ajar, a deliberate invitation. You raise your hand and knock, a firm, steady rap.

"Come in," her voice calls out, smooth as aged whiskey.

You push the door open and step inside. The room is lavish, a suite fit for a queen, with a sitting area and a view of the sprawling grounds. Teanna is lounging on a velvet chaise lounge, one leg draped elegantly over the other. She's changed from her dress into a silk robe that falls open slightly at the thigh. She sips from a crystal glass, her eyes gleaming with victorious amusement.

"General," she purrs, setting her glass down. "Report."

"The mission is accomplished," you say, closing the door behind you. "DesHawn took the bait. I think you've got a hook in him. Sky doesn't trust him anymore."

A triumphant smile blooms on her face. "Oh, honey, it's more than a hook. I gave him the whole sales pitch. Fun, no pressure, a woman who appreciates a 'chill loving dude'." She laughs, a low, throaty sound. "He putty. He's a lock." She doesn't need to add that he has no idea you were the architect of his new infatuation. That's your value. You're the unseen hand.

"Excellent," you reply, your own pulse quickening in the charged atmosphere of the room.

She rises from the chaise, her movements fluid and predatory. She stops in front of you, her gaze holding yours. "A good general deserves a reward," she murmurs, her voice a silken promise. Her robe slips open a little more as she moves.

Before you can fully process it, her hand is on your belt, her movements confident and sure. "This was just phase one," she whispers, her other hand tracing the line of your jaw. "Phase two... is tomorrow. But right now you've earned an advance on your spoils."

Her fingers deftly undo your zipper, and she reaches inside. The feel of her hand, warm and skillful, is a jolt of pure electricity. She works you with a practiced, deliberate rhythm, her eyes locked on yours the entire time. This isn't about love or even simple lust, it's a transaction, a cementing of a bond, a lesson in the currency of power. You are being paid. You are being claimed.

Your breath hitches, and a low groan escapes your lips. She smiles, a predator's satisfaction, as she lowers herself to her knees. The sight alone is nearly enough to finish you. She is utterly in control, a goddess bestowing a favor, and the knowledge sends a dizzying rush through you. Your 'regular guy' persona is a forgotten scrap of paper in a hurricane.