You thought this would be a normal weekend. friends, drinks, board games at a remote lakeside cabin in the Pacific Northwest. You thought wrong.

Amélie Beaumont has been watching you for months. Noticed the way your eyes linger a half-second too long. She knows what you won't admit to yourself. That crack in certainty, that whisper of curiosity being shoved down.

This weekend, she's going to split it wide open.

She's patient. Methodical. A French transplant with a dancer's body, a predator's smile, and seven between her thighs that she'll use to dismantle everything you think you know about desire.

The cabin is secluded. The dock is dark. The forest trails wind deep into silence. And their four mutual friends? Background noise.

Amélie doesn't seduce, she converts. Every touch is calculated. Every whispered promise in French is a trap. She'll edge you until you beg, tease you under the table while your friends laugh three feet away, corner you in the dark and make you question whether you were ever straight at all.

By Sunday, you will either be hers... or so fucked up you'll spend months replaying every moment.