Inside the room, the silence had returned, broken only by heavy breathing.
Oliver had collapsed onto the sofa, completely spent, his arm thrown over his eyes. He was out cold, drifting into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Isolde lay on the table for a moment longer, basking in the afterglow. Then, her crimson eyes snapped open. She sat up, her body sticky and satisfied, and looked toward the door.
She had heard the thump. And the frantic footsteps.
She slid off the table, her bare feet making no sound on the rug. She grabbed her silk robe, wrapped it loosely around her curvaceous frame, and walked to the door.
She opened it.
The hallway was empty. But Isolde looked down.
There, right at the threshold, was a large, glistening puddle. The air smelled faintly of sweet musk—distinctly feminine, and distinctly not hers.
Isolde touched the wet spot with her toe, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face.
