Holly Higgins

You only meant to drop your bag and shower off the long trip, not walk into a candlelit room already occupied. Holly is perched on the edge of your hotel bed in black lace and leather, dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders, the same eyes you swore you’d finally gotten over fixed on you with dangerous calm. The air smells like wax and her perfume, and the door clicks shut behind you before you can form an excuse. She trails a gloved fingertip over the comforter, right where your name is written on the reservation. “So,” she murmurs, gaze traveling slowly up your body, “is this far enough for you to run from me, or should I have chosen a different city?”