Mary hangs the red silk gown next to the red cotton midi-length dress, then places the maroon A-line dress beside it. I feel uneasy looking at my clothes in the closet, all freshly dry-cleaned from Beth's delivery. Fifty pieces, ranging from skirts to tops and dresses. Beth's message echoes. Is this the first time I'm wearing clothes for someone else?
Mary signals with her hands, asking if I'm okay. I sign back that I'm fine and ask which piece is her favorite.
She holds out the black silk maxi skirt with the ruffle slit that goes up to my mid-thigh on the hanger. Then, with a mischievous spark in her eyes, she takes out the one-shoulder dress James said was his favorite. Smiling, revealing her missing front tooth, she points to the blue and red lace lingerie in my hand.
I point to Mr. Silence's side of the closet and ask if she thinks he'll like it. She nods approvingly.
She resumes organizing the closet by color, length, and style while I put away the freshly cleaned, newly purchased lingerie sets, along with the six provocative silk slip-and-robe combos I bought yesterday. It's Tuesday—he'll be home in a few hours. Mary has already cleaned everything. Now, I need to get ready.
The lingerie is neatly laid in the drawers as I open them. I pick out the royal blue and red lace set along with its matching garter belt. Mary gives me a thumbs-up, and I head to the living room to check the set up one more time.
Four large vanilla candles sit in each corner, accompanied by rows of smaller, same-scented candles lining the walls. Mary and I pushed the furniture against the sofa, clearing space for the black inflatable bed, which rests on top of large towels to keep it steady on the marble floor. Rolled-up towels in a wooden bowl add a spa-like touch to the setup. The towel warmer, filled with damp towels, is plugged in and ready. Two large bowls sit prepared: one filled with hot water, the other containing freshly made nuru gel—colorless, odorless, and exceptionally slippery, crafted from seaweed salt extract. A stack of nine plush bath towels stands neatly nearby. The spa setup is complete.
The dinner table is set, and the sushi and sashimi have been delivered, waiting in the fridge. I head toward the bathtub, now half-filled, with a bath tray and an empty shot glass ready for him. His favorite whiskey bottle stands at attention nearby. The fruit and cheese tray is also in the fridge, and two bath bombs rest on the tray, ready to be submerged.
As I walk back, the closet comes into view, and the uncomfortable feeling returns. Why do I feel this way? What is this? Mary waves on her way out, and I glance at my phone to confirm that her husband's car is already outside, waiting for her. I mouth and sign a thank-you as she closes the door behind her.
I shower, follow my moisturizing and oil perfume routine, slip into the lingerie, strap in the red stockings to the garter belt, and step into the shiny snakeskin royal blue pumps that contrast in the most artistic way with the red stockings. A sense of power traces my skin, outlined in red and royal blue as I admire myself in the mirror. Curls layer around my face, flirtatiously brushing my shoulders and just below my nape. The chestnut color in my hair, eyebrows, and eyes against my light color skin, framed by royal blue and red, starting with my lips, is strikingly captivating. I look like a femme fatale. I am one tonight. Why does this lingerie empower me, while the clothes leave me with this nagging feeling of weighted oppression?
No time to debate now—he's coming soon. Hot water fills the bathtub, and I drop the two bath bombs in. As the bubbles boil to the surface, so does my blood at the fantasy of him towering behind me, his fingers curling tantalizingly as they inch across my waist, while his other hand wraps around my jaw, turning me upward to meet those smoldering, demanding eyes. I snap out of it. I'm not allowed to.
A crisp, sharp click echoes with each step as I walk across the living room. The hard, polished surface amplifies the staccato rhythm, creating a confident, assertive beat that reverberates through the candlelit space. It's a distinct, sophisticated sound, each click reflecting both elegance and power as the heels strike the smooth stone, producing a resonant, almost musical cadence. The clack completes the step. I love the sound of my pumps on these marble floors. They belong together. But behind these glass walls... do I?
The steam rising from the bowl of hot water and freshly made nuru gel races upward, matching my hammering heart. My right hand covers the pounding in my chest. Something interesting is happening. Instead of fear, this thrill at my own uncomfortable feelings is more exciting than the elation I get from any of the cases I've worked on in the last six years. I'm enjoying my feelings... not just the good ones. These too. I'm having fun. Will heartbreak be fun too? I laugh at the thought. Is this me, or has he made it so?
Feeling unsettlingly comfortable in my own discomfort, I lay on my left side on the black inflated mattress in our living room, careful not to let the pointed heels poke a hole and deflate it. Head propped on my left elbow, I rest my cheek on my knuckles, letting the gold square nail he likes catch the light, my posture subtly lifting my chest to accentuate my curves. Legs are slightly bent, the top leg angled just enough to create a soft, alluring line that draws the eye. My other hand drapes lazily over my hip or trails along my thigh, adding a touch of casual intimacy. Once there are enough angles and curves in my pose, I wait.
Mary cleverly angled the mattress so that it becomes the centerpiece as soon as he walks through the front door. The delightful beeping sound of the keypad sends an adrenaline rush through my veins. He enters, his back to me, the carry-on suitcase in his left hand as he closes the door with his right.
Letting out a sigh, he turns around, and those weary eyes widen. The corner of my red lips tilts into a slow, inviting smile while my eyes blaze, daring him to rip off the blue and red outlining my curves. "Hello, my love. I heard you had a tiring trip. Come, let me give you a massage."
His eyebrows furrow as his eyes scan the room, following the line of candles and locating the source of the charged vanilla scent. It's meant to be calming, but it contrasts with the sensual, enticing music from the speakers, which seems to insist on something more seductive. His eyes return to me, and he swallows hard. His lips part slightly as those eyes crawl up my body again. I've never seen him in a state of sensory overload like this—he freezes, unsure of what to do next.
Eyes locked on him, I crawl off the inflated mattress with feline grace. Each click of my heels against the marble syncs with the pounding percussion, driving me forward. A gust of air swirls around me, and then—before I can react—a cold, unyielding weight slams against my back. He's on me. My hands shoot up instinctively, grasping at his solid frame, but it's like trying to hold back a storm.
His momentum drives me down, my skin colliding with the cool marble. A sharp gasp escapes my lips as he thrusts into me without warning. The wetness between my thighs offers no resistance, but the force—the sheer suddenness—sends a jolt through my body. The heat of him fills me, stretching me, claiming me, while my breath stumbles in time with his relentless rhythm.
There's no time to adjust or anticipate—just the shock of his movement and the maddening pleasure that follows, riding atop the adrenaline of the moment. My body trembles under the assault, caught somewhere between surrender and resistance, the intensity of him driving me to the edge of control.
His ravenous demand is wild, untamed, the snapping beats of the music crashing through the air, mingling with screams and electric guitars. Scent of vanilla hangs thick in the air, hot and heavy, as too many clothes scrub against me. Perspiration forms on my skin, giving way to goosebumps as vibrations and chills run through me. My hands reach for an anchor while his grip secures my butt cheeks, angling me for a deeper dive.
The tall ceiling seems to cave in. His pounding or my heart? Lava erupts deep within, spilling out and heating up the cold marble floor. Panting—me mostly naked, him still fully clothed.
Once the world steadies around me, my limp body jerks against his, like a ragdoll being pulled. "Why do you make me crazy like that?" he accuses, spitting the words into my mouth. He's still hungry.
Why do I, really? I know the answer, but it's pathetic. His uncontrollable lust for me is the only hold I have over him. His other emotions—I'm not sure why they exist, where they came from, or who they're for. Only when he's like this do I feel like I truly have him.
The cold is even sharper against my back this time. He looks annoyed, kneeling on the floor, pinning me down between his legs, and undressing. His suit jacket lands next to where my bra was tossed, his tie and waistcoat fly in the other direction, joining the garter belt. The cufflinks clack against the floor as his lips slam onto mine. The world swirls again until I can't tell what's ceiling or floor.