Devon pushed through the heavy double doors of the suite, the air hut him crisp and cool—AC humming soft and steady from hidden vents high up, carrying the faint, clean scent of polished teak wood panels lining the walls.
Fresh orchids blooming white and fragrant on the antique side table carved from ebony, their petals soft and dewy, releasing bursts of sweet, tropical perfume with every subtle draft.
The city sprawled endless and alive below through floor-to-ceiling windows—glass spotless and thick, frames black steel cold to the touch—lights twinkling in a sea of gold and crimson.
Yvonne sat dead center in the sprawling living room—throned in a high-back leather armchair, black as midnight and buttery smooth, legs crossed tight at the knee, ankle over ankle in sheer black stockings that whispered faint with every shift, heel dangling sharp and precarious, red sole flashing like a warning.
