The third-floor hallway tasted like cold marble and secrets. The bass from below had shrunk to a dull, velvet heartbeat, pulsing up through the soles of my bare feet like a distant lover's breath.
The air up here was crisp, laced with chilled cedar from hidden vents and the faintest trace of jasmine drifting from somewhere deeper.
Every inhale coated my tongue with the promise of something expensive and forbidden.
Two doors. One sealed like a tomb, matte black swallowing the red glow.
The other: oak, six inches ajar, exhaling a blade of warm amber light that cut across the runner and licked the edges of my toes.
The small light carried heat, the scent of vanilla bourbon and heated skin, the soft clink of crystal somewhere inside.
I pushed.
The door sighed open on oiled hinges, releasing a sigh of warmer air that wrapped around my chest like silk. The room hit me all at once.
