I needed something real. Something mine to ground me.
Found it in the bedroom.
Madison and Amanda. A study in contrasts tangled in sheets that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Both face down, unconscious, the morning light painting masterpieces across their exposed backs.
The dip of Amanda's spine created a shadowed valley leading down to the sweet swell of her ass, barely covered by Egyptian cotton so soft it practically whispered promises against her skin. Madison's tan lines, faint tracks from some ridiculously exclusive beach, framed the strong lines of her shoulders. Fuck the Louvre; this art hung in my bed. My private collection.
I moved to Amanda first. The bed dipped slightly under my weight. Leaned down, pressed my lips to that warm, sensitive spot between her shoulder blades – the one that always made her melt like caramel in the sun.
Her skin tasted clean, expensive, faintly of some floral lotion Madison doubtlessly insisted on.
