By the time we reached the suite, the city was black glass beyond the windows, smeared with neon.
Amber kicked her heels off at the door, the little black dress riding high on her thighs, hair falling loose like the night itself had decided she was done being composed. She moved across the room barefoot, hips swaying, light-footed, like the weight she carried most days had slipped away with the shoes.
I shrugged out of my jacket and let it fall over a chair, fingers tugging at my tie. I was already loosening the first button of my shirt when her voice caught me.
“The night’s not over.”
I turned. She stood at the sound system, scrolling through the panel, lips curved in mischief. Then the speakers filled with a beat too sweet, too young for this room — Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off.
Ambe
