The townhouse was always spotless, its air scented faintly with vanilla candles, but tonight it felt charged like the walls themselves knew what was about to happen.
Clara closed the front door softly behind her, heart racing as she slipped off her heels. The late-night city hum filtered in through the windows, but inside, everything was hushed. Her wife, Evelyn, was waiting.
Evelyn sat in her favorite armchair, a glass of red wine in hand, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. She always looked regal like that, silky dark robe flowing around her legs, lips painted in deep plum, watching with that mixture of love and hunger that never failed to make Clara shiver.
And tonight, Clara hadn't come home alone.
Trailing behind her was Marissa, young, nervous, her laughter too high-pitched
