Friday night Diana’s phone lit up at 7:03 p.m. while she was still in the shower.
Penthouse. Meridian. 9 sharp.
Dress on the bed. Wear nothing else.
A black gift box waited outside her apartment door when she stepped out—red satin dress inside, tag still attached. Tight. Low neckline. Hem barely grazing mid-thigh. No bra. No panties. Just the dress and a pair of strappy black heels they’d slipped in the bottom.
She dressed slow, heart already racing. The fabric clung to every curve, n*****s hard against the thin material, the cool air between her legs a constant reminder she was bare underneath. She took a cab, gave the driver the hotel name, and spent the ride pressing her thighs together to ease the ache that had started the second she read the text.
The Meridian’s private elevato
