Damien stood outside the oak door of Room 121.
He didn't even have the chance to raise his knuckles to the wood. He had barely slipped his phone back into his pocket when the brass handle clicked and the door swung smoothly open.
Aria stood in the threshold, a devastatingly beautiful smile playing on her lips. She had been watching the digital intercom, waiting for him.
Damien stopped dead in his tracks.
The harsh, fluorescent lighting of the hotel corridor spilled into the suite, fighting against the warm, amber glow of the dimmed lamps Aria had deliberately set. But it was the woman bathed in that low, sultry lighting that completely knocked the air out of Damien's lungs.
Aria was wearing red.
It was a slip of a nightgown, crafted entirely from delicate, blood-red lace. It was practically transparent, clinging like a second skin to the soft curves of her hips and the swell of her breasts. The material stopped dangerously high on her thighs.
