The elevator to Victor’s penthouse opened directly into the studio: one vast room of black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a single steel barre bolted to the far wall. Moonlight poured through the wall of windows overlooking the city, silvering every surface. Sasha stepped out barefoot, wearing only the thin silk robe he had told her to bring and nothing beneath. The air smelled of cedar and something sharper (his skin, already waiting).
Victor stood in the center, shirtless, black warm-up pants riding low on his hips. The low light carved shadows across the ridges of muscle she had only felt in the dark before. He didn’t speak. He simply crooked one finger.
She crossed the room, robe fluttering open with every step until it slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor
