Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Shakira was a whirlwind of frustration and thrill. She was thrilled by Martin's attention and her instinctive response, yet ashamed of her actions. She scolded herself but couldn't stop. She just wanted him to crave her.

Martin, legs crossed, listened to Vanessa while admiring Shakira's pose, his foot swaying. That roguish charm on his handsome face and refined aura made him the epitome of a "suave scoundrel," leaving Shakira fuming and tempted to bite him.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Shakira checked the caller ID and scowled. Piqué again? This guy's relentless. I told him not to bother me.

Should've never given him my number.

She hesitated, then answered.

"Hello."

"Hi, Shakira, it's Piqué."

"I know."

"Next Tuesday, Barça's playing Real Madrid in Madrid. Got time for coffee?"

"Sorry, no."

"Too bad. How about Wednesday? I can stay an extra day."

Shakira's brows knit in annoyance. Martin's earlier teasing had ignited a spark, now flaring. "Piqué, I've told you—we're not happening. Stop pestering me."

Piqué paused on the other end, then asked, "Shakira, can you tell me why? If I did something wrong, I can change."

Before Shakira could snap back, Martin snatched the phone, placing it to his ear. "Piqué? Stop bothering Shakira. She has a boyfriend—me."

"Who the hell are you?" Piqué demanded.

"Remember this: Martin Meyers. Bye!"

In Barcelona's dressing room, Piqué stared at his phone, dumbfounded. Xavi teased, "What's up, kid? Struck out with the Latin queen?"

Iniesta, changing, chimed in, "Come on, man, snag that singer."

Messi gave his teammate an awkward smile.

Piqué groaned. "I'm screwed. She's got a boyfriend."

Xavi's eyes widened. "What? Since when?"

Iniesta encouraged, "Boyfriend? So what? Steal her away."

Messi gave another awkward smile. "Yeah, you're screwed."

Piqué: "You guys!"

Back at Shakira's, Martin hung up, deftly adding Piqué to her block list, and tossed the phone back. "Handled your pest. No thanks needed."

Shakira gaped, then exploded. "Who said you could speak for me? Who said you could answer my phone? Who said you could talk to my friend? Who said you're my boyfriend—?!"

Her barrage escalated, volume spiking with fury.

Martin said nothing, leaning in to silence her with a deep, lingering kiss.

Ten seconds passed before he pulled back. "Am I your boyfriend?"

"You—" Shakira's anger faltered, but she huffed.

Another ten-second kiss.

"Now am I?"

"You—" Her fire dimmed, tone softening.

Another ten.

"Am I your boyfriend, Shakira?"

Her resistance crumbled, cheeks flushing. "You… yes, you are."

Martin scooped her up, bounding upstairs. "Where's the bedroom?"

Lost in his commanding tenderness—or oxygen-deprived from the kisses—Shakira murmured, "Second floor, second door on the left."

In her haze, she saw Vanessa waving goodbye. A twinge of guilt surfaced, swiftly drowned by surging passion.

When Shakira came to, night had fallen. Seeing Martin's handsome face beside her, a profound satisfaction washed over her.

She hugged his arm, kissing it fiercely.

Martin stirred, one hand stroking her hair, the other patting her perky rear.

Shakira purred, eyes half-closed in bliss.

A second later, they flew open.

Wait—both of Martin's hands were occupied. So whose arm was she holding?

"Ahhh!" She shrieked.

"What? What? What?" The figure on Martin's other side bolted upright, startled by the scream.

"Vanessa? Why are you in my bed? Wait—when did you get in?" Shakira yelped.

Vanessa blushed. "During your… most intense moment."

Shakira: "???"

Vanessa: "???"

Shakira: "???o???"

Vanessa: "?(??)?"

Martin: "What's with the emoji faces?"