I wasn’t nning to walk by Aire Noire.

But my feet had a different idea. They always did when it came to her.

The sun was sliding low over Royal Street as tourists were being told the oft-repeated story about how haunted the Andrew Jackson Hotel was.

The guide’s voice floated above the tter of carriages and the buzz of the street:

“…and here’s where guests reported waking up to find furniture moved, windows opened, or their nkets tugged away in the middle of the night. Some even say they heard the sound of boysughing, running down the halls—but there haven’t been children in that hotel for years.”

A few people chuckled nervously.

One man took a photo, just in case.

I knew what the guide would say next, I’d heard it many, many times, as had anyone who was born and raised in New Orleans.

A woman staying alone in the hotel in the nies snapped pictures of her room to show her family back home. When she got her film developed, there was a photo she didn’t remember taking. It was angled from the ceiling, as if someone had taken it looking down on her while she slept.

“She swore she never took it,” the guide continued conspiratorially. “She swore she’d been alone. The hotel staff chalked it up to a trick of the light, a faulty camera, a misced negative. But those of us who’ve lived here long enough know better.”

I chuckled as people looked at the hotel, and one person asked. “So, the hotel is open to guests?”

“Absolutely. I mean, guests hear the boysughing from time to time, but that’s just part of the experience.”

I couldn’t help being amused when the guide ominously dered, “Some ghosts want to be seen. Others want you to know they’re watching.”

I strolled by the corner of Royal and Toulouse, and my eyes fell on the window of Aire Noire.

Jesus!

The disy stopped me in my tracks like a fist to the chest.

It was bold—naughty, but not vulgar.

It was something else. Sensuality that made your mouth dry and your heart ache at the same time.

A mannequin in a peach silk robe was perched on an antique chair, legs parted just enough to make it intentional. Between her thighsy pearls, long andnguid, like a dare. The mannequin’s wrist was set as if she were about to touch herself. A coupe ss stained with lipstick sat beside her, and love notes—torn and inked in French—were scattered like fallen confessions.

Across the window ss in gold script, it said: C’est Mardi Gras, chérie—sois audacieuse.

It was both a middle finger to propriety and an invitation to taste the forbidden.

It was art. It was ssy. It was raunchy.

It was…Naomi.

Sexy.

Sophisticated.

Gorgeous.

I stepped closer, drawn like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks. The scene was curated within an inch of its life, but it didn’t feel staged. It felt like her. Like she’d poured her breath into that mannequin, gave it her softness, her rebellion, her fire.

I remembered, couldn’t help but, the time when she’d worn nothing but a corset andcy panties, her body a symphony of curves and secrets.

“You’rete,” she purred when I came in after closing, locking the door behind me as was my habit.

Thece hugged her tits. Her nipples were pressed against the fabric. Hard nubs begging for attention.

She wore garters, which made me throb. They snaked down her thighs, holding up stockings so sheer they might as well have been painted on.

She was perched on the edge of an antique chaise lounge, one leg slung over the armrest, her pussy covered with barely-therece. A single pearl ne hung between her tits, swaying with every breath she took.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to choke out.

Her fingers trailed down her body like she was ying a piano, each touch deliberate, each movement a fucking masterpiece.

She started at her corbone, tracing the line of her neck until her fingers met the pearls. She tugged at them gently, letting them roll over her skin, and then she dragged them lower, over the swell of her tits, down to her navel.

The pearls dipped between her legs before she pulled them away, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“I’m busy,” she moaned, making my dick twitch.

“I can see that,” I breathed.

She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs with a slowness that was torture. She kicked them off with a flick of her ankle. I saw her pussy, slick and swollen, her clit already peeking out from under its hood.

“Ah, God, baby,” I groaned.

She bit her lip, her eyes fluttering shut as she dragged her finger down to her slit, parting her folds with a soft moan. She touched her clit, teasing herself with lightest pressure, but enough to make her breath hitch.

“Eyes on me, baby,” I growled.

I could see how wet she was, her juices glistening in the dim light as she used her hands on herself, her hips rocking forward.

She looked at me with wide eyes, dripping with arousal.

“Gage,” she whispered, her voice low and raspy, like she’d been smoking too many cigarettes or screaming my name all night.

“Two fingers, baby, in you,” I ordered.

She did as I said, curling them inside, her thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in tight little circles.

Her tits bounced with every thrust of her fingers, her breathing in short, sharp gasps.

My hand stroked my cock over my jeans as I watched her.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her, from the way her pussy gripped her fingers, how her juices dripped down onto the chaise, how her thighs trembled as she worked herself closer and closer to the edge.

“You wannae, baby?” I was losing the plot. Losing my mind. I wanted to taste, consume—but this elegant striptease was erotic as fuck, and I wanted to prolong it for as long as I could.

“Yes,” she breathed, and then did something that nearly made mee on the spot.

She grabbed the pearls from around her neck and pulled them taut, running them over her clit in slow, deliberate strokes.

The coolness of the pearls against her heated flesh made her gasp, her back arching off the chaise as she rubbed faster and faster, her hips jerking uncontrobly.

“Gage,” she moaned, and fuck, hearing my name on her lips as she was about toe was enough to make my balls tighten.

Her fingers were still inside her, fucking herself deep as she came undone on the pearls. Her pussy was probably mping down on her hand, I thought, as she rode out the waves of her orgasm.

Her juices spilled over her fingers, dripping down onto her thighs as she copsed back against the chaise, her chest heaving, her body trembling with the aftershocks.

I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, and pulled my cock out as I walked to her.

Her eyes met mine. She smirked,zy and satisfied.

“Oh look, you’re hard,” she cooed.

“Suck me off, baby.” I put my hand on the back of her head, pulling her close to me.

She took me inside her mouth and….

I ran a hand through my hair, hot and bothered, hard as steel.

The thought emerged almost painfully inside of me: I miss her.

God, I miss her so fucking much.

I almost went inside.

Almost pushed open the door, found her, and said—what?

That I was sorry?

That I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she used to wake me up with her mouth on my cock, the way she kissed me like a promise?

That I was starting to remember how it felt to be happy while I now stood in an emotional wastnd?

I stepped into the shadows when I saw her open the door from the inside to let a customer out.

Tall, well-dressed. Clean-cut. Smiling like he’d just been handed the keys to a dream. He held an Aire Noire bag in one hand,ughing at something she said.

She was smiling, too.

Not the big one. Not the one that cracked across her face like sunrise. But a soft one. Polite. Present.

I stared, blood running cold with the familiar throb of jealousy I could never seem to shake when it came to her.

Was he hitting on her?

Was he buying silky lingerie for someone else?

Did she model it for him as she did for me?

She’s not yours, dipshit. Move the fuck on!

Fuck that!

I hated that man because he got to stand near her, talk to her, see her, have her smile at him, be nice, polite…beautiful.

And I didn’t.

It made my chest ache. My throat close. Made me want to tell her things I’d buried years ago.

Run, Gage! Get the hell away from here.

She still made me feel too much—like my heart had cracked open and she was slipping inside.

I blinked, jaw clenched. I forced my feelings down.

Naomi looked up then. Toward me. Toward the ironce fence where I stood.

But she couldn’t see me.

I was consumed by the darkness.

She looked like she could see something, feel something. She didn’t smile, just looked like someone who had nothing left to give.

My heart shriveled some more. She wasn’t happy. I knew her well enough to see that.

Did I do that to her?

The man left, and she turned the store’s sign from open to closed and disappeared into her sensuous world of silk andce.

I stood on the street, feeling empty until thest rays of the sun faded off the ss.

I knew, with an aching certainty, that even though I’d done my best, I was still walking around full of her, not being able to forget, to move on.