The Devil in the Armchair

Ethan was right.

That was the worst part.

The room was thick with it — the smell of sex and sweat and something sweeter underneath, like the cheap body spray Rachel must have worn to the rave the night before. It clung to the sheets, to her skin, to the air itself. Beneath was the sharper edge of Colt’s leather and the faint, expensive trace of Ethan’s cologne, undercut by the wine he’d been drinking since morning. Alex could taste all of it on the back of his tongue.