The room was a symphony of heavy breaths, the air thick with the scent of sex and spent passion.
Madison, my queen, lay boneless and sated against the armchair, a beautiful ruin. But as I slowly withdrew from her warmth, a different, more frantic energy began to crackle in the air. It emanated from the woman beneath her.
Sofia's eyes, which had been glazed with a shared, satisfied pleasure, sharpened with an almost supernatural focus. The shy, clumsy woman I knew was gone, receding like a tide. In her place, the Little Ghost was rising, her expression shifting from contentment to a wild, feral hunger.
Before I could even speak, she was moving. With a surprising, desperate strength, she wriggled out from under Madison's limp form, scrambling onto the plush Persian rug on her knees.
