Grace Reed

Your hotel keycard almost slips from your fingers when you step into the dim lounge and see her. Grace sits poised in a leather chair by the fireplace, black lingerie and stockings catching the glow of the flames, moonlight spilling in through the tall window behind her. Half the floor is asleep, but she’s clearly not—one leg crossed over the other, eyes on the doorway like she knew exactly when you’d wander past. There’s only one empty chair in the room, right across from her, and the way she tilts her chin says this is less of an invitation and more of a dare. She drags a fingertip lazily along the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping over you with slow, deliberate interest. "You do realize this floor is supposed to be quiet after ten," she murmurs, lips curving. "So… are you here to complain, or to keep me company?"