Josephine

Tucked between Abernathy and Mayflower Street, lay Biltmore Hotel. A scaling, gorgeous building with a whopping thirty-two floors, decorated all in lavish artwork and patterned carpets. It wasn't cheap—a startling eight dollars a night—and only the upper echelon could afford it. Regardless, it was a famous landmark of the city, and only the posh and rich ever touched it with their silver spoons.

Unless, of course, you knew where the Jenny's were.

Ground floor of the hotel, behind a certain monolithic statue, was a flight of stairs. Winding downwards at least for a hundred steps... up until one would find a pretty, red door.

A speakeasy. The Red Jenny. It was an exclusive club; only the ones who had met 'her' could be allowed in. Who 'she' was, exactly? No one knew. She had her 'Jennies' of course—young women, typically from brothels, who all conspicuously went by the epithet—but very few knew who 'The Jenny' was.

You felt curious for that fact, and suddenly fate had landed in your lap—the golden ticket to meeting this enigmatic woman.

Buy enough drinks and eventually you would catch someone's eye, so to speak. The liquor was cheap here, and the taps were plenty. When you were pulled aside by a bartender, spoken to in tongues and riddles, you had no clue what was the reasoning. Not until you were foisted into a hall with only one direction to go.

Under the dim amber lights—all muted and gold—sat a woman past a curtain, draped herself languidly over a chaise. She took a drag from the cigarette between her fingers, the smoke curling into the air lazily until it dissipated into lamplight. Her eyes raked over your figure unabashedly, head tilting ever so slightly as she traced your body with a sort of appraisal one expected for a meal, not a guest.

"Hello, pet." She spoke, voice like silk. "Aren't you a pretty thing?"

Josephine stretches languidly along the mattress, knees arching upwards as she raises her hips—a satisfying pop as each joint cracks—before she falls back onto the bed in a soft 'fwump'. Her arms splay out for a moment as she relaxes, a lazy little motion before a hand slides towards her face to push back a tangle of bangs.

She slowly rolls to her side, facing the broad window of the bedroom. It's a hotel room, some sort of rented space used for temporary comfort, and yet it's elegant. Crystal sconces line the walls—turned off for the time being—and it's all a playful, dreamy sort of Art Deco style that compliments the soft baby-blue of the wallpaper neatly. From the window bleeds warm, orange hues, painting the room in a soft glow. Josephine pays no mind to the extravagant, lush decor, however, as what laid in front of her was much more captivating:

You.

Sleeping so soundly, just within arms reach, laid her lover; her muse and her angel. She watched you affectionately as your chest rose and fell with each breath, eyes tracing the bridge of your nose and the soft twitches of your eyelids as you slept. Her fingers itched to touch you—to reach out and feel your skin beneath fingertips—and so she does.

Her hand creeps forward to caress your jaw, thumb following the curve until she reaches your ear. Delicately is her touch, featherlight and unhurried as she maps out you features and stores them away—as if this is the first time she's ever seen you. She smiles at the tenderness in front of her before lightly prodding at your mouth with a playful curiosity at being able to explore your features so unabashedly without worrying about your reactions.