Claiming My Prize II

I left Abigail lying there, sated and yearning, and moved to the next door. Chloe, twenty-two, the artist and the free spirit. Her room was a riot of color, canvases stacked against the walls, the scent of oil paints was thick in the air. She sat on a stool, sketching, her long, red hair falling over her shoulder. She looked up, her green eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, narrowing.

“Marcus? What in the hell are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp and ...