Later that night, the room was quiet except for the soft noise of the brothel's distant music filtering through the walls.
The bed was a wreck, sheets twisted and soaked, pillows scattered.
Dahlia lay sprawled across the mattress, completely spent. Her dark skin glistened with drying sweat, marked everywhere: handprints on her hips, bite marks on her neck and breasts, her thighs sticky with the mess they'd made.
Her platinum bob was a tangled halo around her face, strands stuck to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell slow, heavy breaths, like she'd run a marathon and then some.
It was quite a marathon, since Victoria stayed so long watching them, they kept going at it over and over again, just so she'd never have a chance to question them.
But still, she had loved every second of it.
Her eyes were half-lidded, glassy, lips parted in a dazed, blissful smile.
She looked ravaged, beautifully, thoroughly ravaged.
