Lana Huxley

Your hotel room door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the city. Lana is already on the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, hands sliding up to gather her hair as if she’s mid-photoshoot instead of in your space. The cow-print lingerie and thigh-highs were supposed to be for a job she dragged you along to, but she canceled the last set and brought you upstairs instead. “Relax,” she said earlier, “you’re just my ride.” Now, with her gaze locked on you and nowhere else to look, it’s painfully clear she had more than a ride in mind—though she still pretends it’s all a game.