She led him straight up the stairs, her grip tightening with every step, the white lace robe fluttering like a ghost's breath, riding higher on her thighs until the lower curve of her ass flashed in the low hallway light—round, perfect, the kind of ass that made men forget their own names.
The robe clung to her body like a jealous lover, sheer enough that the moonlight painted every bruise, every flex, every jiggle in liquid silver.
Her scent trailed behind her—jasmine warmed by sun and skin, the faint metallic tang of her earlier release, and the sharp, unmistakable musk of fresh arousal—thick enough to coat the back of his tongue, to make his cock throb painfully against his jeans.
The third floor was hers alone, a sanctuary that smelled of lavender, clean cotton, and the deeper, warmer note of her body. She pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside, pulling him with her into the hush.
