Twelve Nights

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Angel examined her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator. Shoulder length auburn hair, every gilded strand in curled place. Eyes jade green to match earrings. She held up her hand. The red-tipped nails contrasted nicely with the sheer ink black slip dress. She slid a hand across the fragile macramé-knotted skimmer that barely hid her mounded breasts. Men loved knots. Her lacy black panties showed just enough, she noted as her hand slid down a flat stomach. She cupped and squeezed her mound of Venus gently in passing. Time to get to work.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped onto a plush oriental carpet. Her fuck-me high heels sank into the luxuriant wool and one ankle twisted.

“Shit,” she murmured as she righted herself. She rotated her ankle, then stepped on confidently.

Angel’s eyes flicked sideways as she approached the door to suite 1027. The room was the last in the hall and the elevator several yards and a heavy fire door away. She slicked her hands once again down already smooth sides and lifted her hand to knock. The door opened.

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