Quinlan's gaze shifted, drinking in the next breathtaking sight standing proudly before him.
Ayame.
The samurai stood with her usual, cool composure, but the outfit she wore was anything but reserved. A sleek, midnight-silk kimono robe draped across her shoulders. It was only half-closed, its neckline plunging low enough to reveal the tantalizing curve of her collarbone and the top part of her chest.
The sleeves were loose, elegant, but her midriff was bare, showing her toned, flawless body. Beneath the open robe, a cropped top clung to her, snug and daring, paired with a short skirt split dangerously high on both sides, revealing long stretches of pale, sculpted thighs with every shift of her hips.
A katana rested at her hip, its sheath polished to a mirror shine. But unlike the weapon she wielded in war, this was ceremonial. Decorative. A symbol, not an instrument of death.
