In the end, things went exactly as Carlos had planned—the two of them checked into a love hotel suite.
Alicia scowled at every inch of the room, her nose wrinkled like a Victorian lady confronting a cockroach. With a delicate, exaggerated grip, she pinched a flimsy lingerie between her fingers—the kind of scandalous scrap that barely covered anything. Her mind flooded with X-rated images, and with a shudder, she hurled it straight into the trash.
Carlos watched her antics from the sofa, shaking his head in amusement. Legs casually crossed, he flipped through the newspaper with a wolfish grin.
Before he could protest, Alicia had already stripped the bed of its crimson sheets, replacing them with stark white linens. The mirrored ceiling canopy—clearly designed for recreation—lay dismantle
