In red

Two bodies lay draped across silk sheets, red lace clinging to every curve like sin made fabric. Their lingerie matched—tiny scraps of crimson that barely contained what wanted to spill free. Ginger's hair caught the lamplight like copper. Jasmine's fell darker, almost black against the pale stretch of her throat. Everything else aligned: the same quickened breathing, the same way their thighs shifted open without thinking, the same hunger that made their hands reach before their mouths asked permission. They moved like women who knew exactly what they wanted from each other and weren't shy about taking it.