So, this was definitely a piece of work. I enjoyed writing it though, even if the end did come out a bit rough. Would love to hear suggestions and other critiques. :D Should be 777 words, by the way. 

[hider=The Woman In Red]
Draped in red, lacy fabric hugging a frame that howled femininity. A glossy coating on pouty lips. A slight tug on the waves she had effortlessly worked into her hair. An adjustment of the strap of her designer bag. The subtle shift of her weight, stiletto heels digging into the tender flesh of pedicured feet as she twisted her wedding ring until it slid off of her finger. Heavily shadowed eyes, a sly wink into the mirror. A grin, wicked and etched with excitement.

It was time. 

She strode-sauntered, rather, onto the dancefloor. The crowd did not part for her, but she slunk through with grace. Lights flared and pulsed around her in time to the heavy music, a myriad of colors illuminating bodies. The acrid scent of booze dulling her senses in a way she found exhilarating. Her heart danced, thudding to the thunderous beat. She approached the middle, gathering herself as the song shifted. Packed with bass, a song fit for a show. She danced.

Spinning, heels clicking against the laminated tiles that were spotted with liquor and sweat.  Like no one was watching, though she felt his gaze on her. It didn’t take long, it never did. A pause, turning towards the pair of glossy eyes that had been burning holes into her body. Handsome, strong features that she delighted in. She would have him tonight.

A wink when the light struck her frame, lips spreading, temptatious. Pivoting, she swayed to the beat of a new song.

It took mere moments. Eyes closed, she smirked as a pair of hands snaked around her waist. Cologne wafted off of him, though it did nothing to cover up the reek of aged spirits. A seemingly endless moment, where it was only them.

Then he spoke. [i]“Come up to my room,”[/i] A mask of confidence, given to him by the liquor he had consumed. Facing him, her gaze was drawn to the tension in his shoulders. Honey brown eyes spoke, telling her what he couldn’t. She gifted him an unsuspecting smile, unmistakably coy. 

[i]“Thought you’d never ask.”[/i] He guided her, past the noise and confusion and to his room. It was nothing special, she supposed he had already splurged on the location. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air. His suitcase, untouched, as if he had just checked in that evening and gone straight to the club.

It hardly mattered, because they had found each other. She settled her purse delicately on the bedside table, excitement trickling down her spine. A quick shimmy released her from skin-tight clothing. 

Their night began. 

[center]~[/center]

Sure hands removed the ‘please make my room’ placard, inserting the keycard in its place. A click, and the maid swung open the door. The smell hit her first. Strong, a metallic tang she didn’t recognize filling the space. A crinkle of her nose and she turned the corner. Her mouth went slack at the sight. 

Draped in sheets stained a rusty red, loosely covering a seemingly naked, masculine frame. A thick coating of blood on parted lips. Mussed hair, he had been rudely awakened from a night of enjoyment. Honey brown eyes faded and glossy. A scream etched on his face that failed to escape his lips.

She screamed. Turning tail and abandoning the man before even noticing the photographs littering the floor. Women, tied to headboards with throats slashed. His personal collection, that he carried to bolster confidence, and to keep him sane during moments of withdrawal. 

She ran so fast that the door to the room remained open, and passersby wondered about the stench leaking from the room. No one suspected a thing, until the head detective of the Chicago PD came to each and every room to question them on if they’d heard or seen anything the night before. 

Word spread quickly, hitting the news despite the police department’s best efforts. 

[center]~[/center]

[i]“Another murder in Chicago, babe? I’m[/i] shocked[i].”[/i] Dahlia yawned as she settled her hands on her husband’s shoulders. She wore long sleeves, disguising the marks around her wrists. Her head cocked as the reporter on the news told them that the man had been stabbed fatally in the heart. A small smirk tugged on her lips as the question [b]‘Is This The Work of The Infamous Chicago Man Eater?’[/b] slowly drifted across the bottom of the screen. 

[i]“Chicago Man Eater...so that’s what they’re calling her.”[/i] Her husband muttered, seemingly unimpressed. Dahlia sighed, retracting her hands after he reached up and stroked one with great affection. She resigned to making the kids a hearty breakfast.

It seemed her husband would never appreciate her profession.
[/hider]