One room, ten up. Shelf kitchen, shower and dump behind a drape, rusty fire-escape. It’s what I’ve got.
“Come up to my place?” I whisper.
We waltz naked beneath the candled chandeliers as the hidden musicians play. Against the gilt-chased wall, my fingers lift her to climax above the harlequin marble floor. Beneath the bed’s blood silk canopy, she takes me slow with a snaky, teasing tongue. Cashmere-wrapped, we nestle beneath the stars, sharing the full moon’s dulcet wine before we must part.
I punch off the alarm, staring at the ceiling’s peeling paint. Fuck. I hate the morning after.