The bedroom smelled like sex, steak, and melted butter.
Ava stood in front of the full-length mirror, sliding into the dress she'd chosen like it was made for war.
Black mesh over black satin, sheer from collarbone to navel, then again from mid-thigh to the hem that barely skimmed the bottom curve of her ass.
The fabric clung to every lethal curve: heavy tits straining the mesh, nipples dark shadows beneath, waist cinched so tight it looked illegal, hips flaring into thighs that could crush a man's skull and make him thank her for it.
Her long black hair fell in a straight, glossy waterfall down to the small of her back, ends brushing the dimples above her ass every time she moved.
She looked twenty-two, maybe twenty-three in the right light, but the way she smiled in the mirror was pure thirties: knowing, hungry, already three steps ahead of everyone in the room.
She caught my eyes in the reflection and grinned, sharp and young and free.
