You weren’t supposed to see me like this.

Not yet.

You were supposed to see the finished version—the woman who finally walks through the door looking perfectly composed, stockings smooth, bl*ck lace in place, heels fastened.

You weren’t supposed to see the ritual.

But maybe I wanted you to.

Maybe that’s why I left the door cr*cked.

Just enough.

I’m sitting at the edge of the bed when I notice you watching. I don’t look up immediately. That would ruin it.

Instead, I let my fingertips drift slowly down my thigh, smoothing the stocking beneath them.

Once.

Then again.

There’s something irresistibly sensual about the faint whisper of nylon beneath my fingertips. I know you can hear it.

And suddenly, I’m taking much longer to get dressed than necessary.

My fingers travel toward my knee. My hand stretches across my leg, the veins along the back of it becoming more pronounced beneath my skin.

I’ve noticed the way you look at my hands.

Of course I have.

You watch when my fingers curl around something. You notice my nails. The tendons beneath my skin. Those veins that travel from my hands, across my wrists and disappear farther up my arms.

You thought you were subtle?

You weren’t.

So now I give you something to watch.

I spread my fingers against the stocking and drag them slowly upward.

Not because it needs smoothing.

It doesn’t.

I just want your eyes following my hand.

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of my mouth.

Caught you.

Still, I say nothing.

Instead, I reach for my heel.

Bl*ck. High. Strappy.

The kind that changes the way a woman carries herself before she ever takes a step.

I slip my foot inside and reach for the first buckle.

My fingers curl around the tiny strap.

But I don’t fasten it immediately.

I look at you.

Just briefly.

Long enough to make sure you know that I know.

Then—

Click.

One.

My fingers linger around my ankle, adjusting a strap that doesn’t really need adjusting.

Then I reach for the second buckle.

Funny how something so simple can suddenly take so long when someone is watching.

My wrist turns as my fingers work the clasp, exposing the veins beneath my skin.

I can feel your attention.

My hands.

My arms.

The stockings.

My heels.

You don’t know where to look first.

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