I drop my purse on the floor with a thud. A lipstick rolls out across the tiles, but I can’t wait. I grab the box and hurry into the apartment, feeling a hot shiver of anticipation. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I pull the card out.
Wear me.
I flip the card over. Again, there’s no name or address from the sender, so I turn my attention to the box.
I ease off the lid and gasp. Layers of black tissue paper reveal a stunning lingerie set in a deep, rich amethyst. It’s gorgeous: sheer lace and decadent silk, with intricate black embroidery twisting like vines and spilling over the cups. The name of a very exclusive brand is delicately embroidered along the edge.
Holy. Shit. It’s Italian, imported, and expensive as gold dust. Every piece costs more than a thousand dollars because of the hand-stitched details. For years, I've coveted one of their bras or a pair of panties, but knowing how far that money could go, how much that amount would mean to my mom, I’ve never been able to justify it.
But he gave me a full matching set.
I run my fingers over the whisper soft embroidery of poppy flowers and vines, the satin straps and demure bows. Along with the bra and matching panty is a garter belt and frothy back-seamed silk stockings.
It’s incredibly luxurious, a fantasy brought to life. Even the sizing is perfect, like he already knows exactly what will fit me.
I realize: whoever sent this not only has money, he has taste.
I’m meeting Keely for drinks, so I quickly shower and lay the lingerie out on the bed. I stroke the silk, relishing the feel of it. It’s almost too beautiful to wear.
Almost.
I start with the bra, then the garter belt. The gossamer thin silk stocking caresses my smooth leg as I roll it up to clip it in place. I slide the panties on next. They press the garter straps into my hips, a constant reminder of what I'm wearing. It feels decadent and naughty.
My underwear complete, I look at myself in the mirror. The deep jewel tone of the lingerie makes my skin look luminous, and the bra pushes my breasts up high. The garter belt hugs the curves of my hips, showing off my round ass and long legs. I feel sexy and sensuous, like a present waiting to be unwrapped.
It seems a shame to cover up such lovely underwear, but I don’t think Keely would appreciate me parading through Manhattan in my panties, so I grab my go-to dress from the closet: a navy V-neck sheath that hugs me in all the right places. I slide on flirty yellow heels for a bright pop of color and check my red lipstick in the mirror.
I feel sexy and confident. There's a power to knowing that I'm hiding a secret underneath my dress: the only hint is the black seam of my stockings running up the back of my legs.
As I’m heading for the door, my phone rings. I answer and hear a loud sneeze.
“It's not allergies,” Keely sniffles. “I have the plague.”
I feel a rush of disappointment. I was looking forward to seeing her again and telling her all about Ash.
“I feel like death,” she continues. “I'm sorry. I thought I could push through it, but there's no way,” she ends with a racking cough.
“It's OK,” I reassure her, pushing my disappointment aside. “We'll have Girls’ Night some other time when you're not coughing up a lung. What can I bring you? Soup? Medicine?” I ask.
“No. Nothing. I don't want to get you sick. I'm just going to go to bed. But you shouldn’t sit at home, go have fun without me!”
“I don't know. I wouldn’t know where to go,” I hesitate.
“It's your first real night in New York City,” she argues between sniffles. “I bet you're already dressed and ready to go, aren't you?”
“...Maybe,” I hedge.
Her laugh ends with a cough and I wince in sympathy.
“Go back to bed,” I tell her. “You should get some rest.”
“Wait,” she says. “There's a bar Cam introduced us to. It has a good scene without being too loud. You'll love it. And my driver should be downstairs any minute to pick you up.”
“Are you sure?” I check. “I mean it about looking after you. I make a great chicken soup.”
“Absolutely,” Keely insists. “Go. We’ll hang out another night.”
I say goodbye and hang up. Part of me is tempted to stay in and order takeout and catch up on TV, but I’m all dressed up and ready to go.
The intercom sounds. It’s the lobby. “Your car is here,” the doorman says.
That decides it. I give myself a final look in the mirror and head out, an extra swing in my step as I feel the lace garters whisper against my skin.
I don’t know what my mystery gift-giver had in mind, but I plan on having some fun.
The car takes me to a buzzing, fashionable spot in the West Village. The neighborhood is leafy and cute, with cobbled streets and people spilling laughter and noise out of the bars and sidewalk cafes.
Inside, the place is busy but not too wild, more of a 20s lounge vibe than a packed club. There’s a gleaming bar along the far wall, and secluded booths with comfy-looking leather seats. Perfect. I can order a drink and some dinner, and unwind from the crazy day I’ve had.
The hostess shows me to a table in the corner. “What can I get you to drink?”
“A scotch, please. Single malt.” I order before I realize what I’m doing, then feel a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. Ashton is the one who introduced me to scotch. I was always a beer girl, I never bothered with fancy liquor, but he insisted I taste the best – straight up, no ice.
The waitress brings me my drink. I take a sip, savoring the rich flavor and low burn as the alcohol snakes through my bloodstream. I still can’t get my head around seeing Ashton today.
I’ve wondered if I’d ever see him again: at an alumni event, maybe, or passing on the street one day. In my daydreams, I’m always cool and effortlessly casual, flashing him an easy smile and acting like I could care less what he’s doing with his life.
But today, I was anything but cool.
I wince, remembering how I stumbled through our introduction, and then was left scrambling to keep up with his lawyers’ arguments. My cheeks burn. How does he still have this effect on me? I spent years secretly melting into a pool of lust every time he brushed against me. I thought I’d be stronger now. Smarter. Immune to his sexy accent and piercing stare.
How wrong could I be?
The years have been good to him, that much is clear. He's even more gorgeous than I remembered. More polished, more refined, and definitely more powerful.
A shiver rolls through my body as I recall how he took control of the meeting. He silenced all arguments with a single word, a commanding look. I don’t want to admit to myself that I still find him attractive, that my body tightens just thinking of him.
Dammit, he’s still sexy as hell.
Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted. A strange man takes a seat at the table opposite me.
I blink at him, thrown.
“I've seen you here before,” he tells me with a flashy grin. He’s cute, I guess. Expensive suit, pinstripe tie. He probably works on Wall Street or something like that, and to any other girl here tonight, he’s probably a catch.
But I’m not any other girl.
And he's not Ashton.
“I don't think so,” I reply coolly.
“You were here last week,” he insists, still lounging in the chair opposite me like he owns the place.
“That's impossible.” My irritation grows. “I just arrived in town.”
“Oh really?” he looks interested. “Tell me all about it.”
“You don’t take a hint, do you?” I roll my eyes. I’m not in the mood for a fight, so I use my trusted standby, the four magic words that get a girl out of any tight spot. “I have a boyfriend.”
His face falls. In an instant, his eyes are sliding past me, looking for his next target. “Have a great night,” he says, already heading across the room.
I grin in triumph as the server arrives with a fresh drink on her tray.
“I didn’t order this,” I say, confused.
“Courtesy of the gentleman at the bar.” She deposits it in front of me. “Oh, and he said to give you this.”
It’s another black gift-box.
My heart stops.
“Who is he?” I demand, twisting around. “Can you point him out to me, please?”
She looks over at the bar. “He’s gone now, sorry.”
Damn.
The waitress leaves, and I turn my attention back to the box. How is this possible? Nobody knows I’m here tonight. But it’s the same gold ribbon. The same cream card. My name in gold ink.
The box is smaller this time. But it's definitely from the same person.
I slide the invitation out from under the ribbon and open it.
Play with me.
Intriguing.
I glance around, my skin prickling with awareness. I’m wearing the lingerie he sent, and suddenly, it feels so intimate. My calves slide against each other in the silk stockings, the garters pressing into my thighs. My nipples stiffen against the lacy bra.
What is he planning next?
I take a deep breath and slowly untie the ribbon. Inside, I find a silver butterfly nestled in a cocoon of black tissue paper.
I pause. What is this?
I take the butterfly out of the box. It's made of smooth, matte silicone and fits in the palm of my hand. The body of the butterfly is ribbed, and adjustable satin straps hook to each corner of the wings.
Suddenly, the butterfly buzzes in my hand.
My mouth falls open.
Holy shit. It’s a vibrator.
I can’t stop a giggle of surprise slipping from my lips. The couple at the next booth look over, so I quickly move the box out of sight below my table.
I gaze at the toy, my excitement rising. I’ve seen these on the website where I shop for all my sexy accessories, but I’ve never used one before. You strap it around your thighs so the butterfly nestles against your clit. There’s either an on/off switch or a remote that controls the vibrations. But I don’t see a switch.
I check the box again. No remote control.
Realization crashes through me. The mystery man must have it. That means he's close. He's here.
My pulse races as I scan the room. He has to be watching me. But everyone seems to be paying attention to their own dining companions. No one cares that I’m over here at the corner table with a vibrator in my hands.
I glance down again. The butterfly looks so cute nestling in the tissue paper, and the contrast between its innocent appearance and illicit purpose gives me a thrill. Nobody would know if I put it on.
Nobody except the man holding the controls, hidden somewhere out of sight.
“Excuse me.” A different server arrives at my table. I slam the box shut with a yelp.
“This is for you,” he says, looking bored. He holds out a new envelope, and I take it, my cheeks flushing. Before I can ask anything else, he walks away.
I take a deep breath, and unfold the card. There’s only one word on the paper.
Now.