Scent of love

Bailey lifts the bottle and catches the scent at once—light enough that it slips past her first breath, then grips harder at the next, sliding straight up the length of her spine. Heat follows it. She pulls the collar of her dress aside, rubs the oil onto her pulse points, and the fragrance blooms warmer against her skin. She imagines hands sliding after it, a mouth tracing the same route, and the idea sinks through her low and thick. The perfume does not wait; it has already decided what the night will ask of her, and she is ready to answer.