“Who is it?” Angela called in a sultry, sing-song voice through her apartment door. She tried peeking through the peephole, but found it blocked by a finger. Pink skin, its creases magnified by the glass, obscured the view. Her blood burned in her veins at the thought of Griffin on the other side of the door. She leaned her back against the door, listening for his breathing on the other side.

“Angel?” she heard him say softly through the wood. She closed her eyes and smiled. ...