Sloane
I woke slowly.
The kind of slow that only happened when I didn’t have anywhere to be. When my body felt warm and heavy and spent in a way that said I’d survived something.
Sunlight poured through the windows, casting long, golden streaks across the bed. The sheets were soft—impossibly soft—like silk, with a whisper of heat still trapped in them.
I was completely naked and my body ached.
Not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made me close my eyes and exhale long and slow, feeling the stretch in my thighs, the tightness in my hips, the residual sting across my ass. A hum low in my belly told me I could have stayed there all day, just floating in the afterglow of everything that had happened the night before.
I shifted a little under the covers, my skin brushing warm fabric, and realized he wasn’t beside me. His side of the bed was empty—still slightly warm, but empty.
My stomach clenched before I could stop it—reflexive, stupid—feeling an old echo of being left. Of men slipping out before morning. Of waking up alone and pretending I didn’t care.
I didn’t reach for my phone or build a wall, though. I just rolled over into the space he’d left behind, pulled the blankets tight around me, and pressed my face into his pillow.
And I inhaled.
Deep.
His scent hit me all at once. It was woodsmoke, leather, heat, and something I couldn’t name, but still somehow recognized. Masculine. Grounding. That faint trace of aftershave that had clung to my skin from the night before when he held me in his arms and kissed me. It wrapped around me like a second set of arms. Like a hug.
I closed my eyes and breathed it in again. He was gone, but he wasn’t far. For once, I didn’t feel abandoned.
I felt… safe.
The word startled me a little. I blinked up at the ceiling, fingers grasping at the pillowcase, still surrounded by the ache of what we’d done and the softness of what came after.
He’d held me.
All night.
He hadn’t asked for more. Hadn’t pushed or demanded. Just wrapped me in his arms like I was something he intended to protect—or possess. Maybe both.
Eventually, I forced myself to sit up, brushing my hair back, the sheets sliding down to my waist. The light had shifted further across the room, and that was when I saw it.
A box.
Wrapped in black matte paper with a blood-red ribbon tied in a neat, perfect bow. It sat on a table near the windows, waiting for me. Like he’d known I’d get up, wander, and find it.
I rose slowly, wincing a little as my feet touched the cold floor, the soreness between my legs making me move with more care than usual. The ache was a reminder of his hands, his words, the moment he looked me in the eyes and told me I’d be saying my vows to him in a week.
I crossed the room, bare and unhurried, the silence humming around me, and stopped in front of the gift. My fingers trailed across the smooth paper, my heart pounding a little harder than it should have.
I didn’t open it yet.
For a moment, I just stood there, wondering what kind of man punished you like a sinner, held you like something sacred… and left you a perfectly wrapped present in the morning.
Then I took the ribbon in my fingers and pulled it. It fell to the table in a soft heap.
I peeled the paper open like I was undressing a dangerous thing. Inside, nestled in layers of deep red tissue paper, was the softest fabric I’d ever touched. I lifted it carefully, holding it up to the light.
It was a wrap dress.
Silk. Crimson.
The color of heat and warnings and blushing skin.
It was simple, elegant, not particularly flashy. The kind of dress that made a statement by pretending not to. It dipped just low enough at the neckline to tease, cinched at the waist with a matching sash, and the hem hovered somewhere at mid-thigh. A dress that would cling in all the right places. Float when I moved. Underneath it, a pair of matching ballet flats. Minimal. Feminine. A whisper of softness. But there wasn’t any underwear. No bra. No lace. Nothing to come between the silk and my skin.
A flush crawled up my neck.
This wasn’t just a gift. It was a command wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a bow: wear this and feel me with every step you take.
I slipped into the dress slowly, careful with the fabric, letting it fall over my skin like a warm breath. It hugged the curve of my waist, draped over my breasts, and skimmed down over my ass. I was hyper-aware of how bare I was beneath the dress. I had a feeling I would be conscious of it all day.
I didn’t hesitate when I slid on the flats.
It was time to explore.
The penthouse beyond the master bedroom was quiet, filled with light and air and the kind of stillness that didn’t make me nervous like my penthouse had. It made me feel safe.
The hallway outside his room was long and moody, flanked with paneled walls and soft recessed lighting. A runner in charcoal gray muffled my steps, and the scent of something subtle and expensive lingered in the air.
I took the first left and found myself in what I could only describe as a private library. Not decorative, lived in. Built-in shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, lined with books in deep jewel-toned covers, old and well-worn. There was a plush emerald velvet armchair nestled in a corner beneath a warm pool of light, a low side table stacked with more titles. Some of them were in Russian.
I ran a hand along the spines as I passed, trying to imagine him here. Reading. Thinking.
The next room was larger, sunken down two shallow steps. A conversation pit. Black leather couches formed a square around a heavy stone coffee table that had veins of white marbling cutting through the dark like lightning. A fireplace stretched along the far wall—sleek slate, no mantel—and above it hung a large abstract painting in shades of ash, wine, and indigo ink.
It felt like a place where people did business.
The bar on the right was built into the wall, stocked with crystal decanters and rare bottles lined up like soldiers on the battlefield. A small hum filtered through the room—some ambient jazz track low in the background, like the space was always ready for company, even when no one was invited.
I continued through the penthouse, my fingers trailing along the cool edges of furniture, catching on stone, glass, steel. The walls were decorated in texture more than color—black, gray, concrete, matte finishes that felt expensive without even trying.
It wasn’t cold.
It was curated.
Like everything he touched became perfect.
I found a door down at the end of the hall that was cracked open. A slow breath escaped me. With every step, I was reminded of how exposed I was beneath my dress, of how bare my pussy was because that’s how he wanted it.
I nudged the door open with one hand.
It was his office. The room inside was enormous, but more than that, it was commanding.
And he was in there.
The ceiling stretched high above me, beams of dark wood cut across clean steel. Three of the four walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, and the view was dizzying. It felt like I’d stepped into the cockpit of a ship sailing the sky.
His desk was carved from black walnut, massive and sleek, the edges beveled with just a hint of brass. Two oversized armchairs sat in front of it, facing him like thrones brought forth for judgment. Off to one side, near the windows, a deep forest green velvet couch shone softly in the morning light—plush and modern and entirely out of place in such a precise room.
He was seated behind the desk in a black leather chair that looked like it was designed to make people feel small. His eyes were fixed on the monitor in front of him, one hand on the mouse, the other resting on the armrest like a king.
He didn’t look up, but I knew that he knew I was there.
