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You don't have to earn pleasure before you're allowed to want it. You don't have to apologize because something turned you on. And you definitely don't get to call that gorgeous, messy little moment pathetic when I'm standing six feet away trying not to lose what remains of my fucking mind over it. You're allowed to be turned on by the letters. You're allowed to hate that you're turned on by the letters.

I stayed hidden because the moment belonged to you. Watching was already a violation big enough to make your friend spontaneously combust if she ever reads this, and I'm not pretending otherwise.

But my imagination did run away from me a little.

I imagined stepping out wearing the mask and stopping where you can see me. You would have plenty of time to throw something, scream, call me every name you know or tell me to leave, but in the fantasy you would spread your knees a little farther. That one imagined movement ruined my entire night. I want to stand there and watch you keep going while you look right back at me, fully aware of where my eyes are and what you're doing to me, and for once you don't make yourself smaller just because somebody wants you.

You let yourself enjoy it, and maybe you even make it worse on purpose because you know exactly what that would do to me. That's the heat I want from you now, beautiful, not frightened or confused or shamefilled. I want you looking straight at me while you knowingly drive me out of my fucking mind. I would only come closer when you ask, and I would only touch you when you want me to, but once you do, sweetheart, I'm not pretending I'd have a single calm thought left.

By then, I suspect both of us would be done pretending the letters were enough.

Instead I stayed hidden until I knew you were properly asleep. Then I left but I expect you'll check the wardrobe every night for the rest of the week after reading this. You're welcome, gorgeous.

Yours, with absolutely no claim to innocence left.

P.S. You hid the dog-eared dark romance under two other books this morning. Too late. I already saw the cover, and suddenly several things about you make even more sense.

October 26

Good evening beautiful,

You bought a velvet dress today, and sweetheart, I had a whole fucking letter in my head before you put that dress on, and now most of it can go to hell. The dress was a dark rust color, almost brown in the shadows, with this deep burnt-orange glow whenever you moved beneath the lights, and you stood in that fitting area looking at yourself in the mirror with so much doubt. The saleswoman told you it looked incredible. You said, "It's a bit much." She said, "That's why it works." I nearly proposed to the woman on your behalf, and I almost thanked her for me because clearly I'm losing my fucking mind.

You turned sideways, pinched the fabric at your waist and kept scanning your reflection until you found three more places to criticize. You were doing that thing again, taking something beautiful and something you wanted and searching it for reasons you hadn't earned it. I wanted to walk right up to you, put my hands over yours and tell you to stop fucking picking yourself apart. You bought it anyway, which earned you the good girl you probably just rolled your eyes at, so keep reading. You bought a velvet mask too, softer and darker than the lace one, with your mouth left uncovered. Then you tested a wine-colored lipstick on the back of your hand and smiled at yourself before you could stop it.

I want more of that.

You deserve another truth tonight, and this one will probably wipe the smile away for a while. The man from August didn't stand you up. You remember him. The date who kept touching your knee after you shifted away, the one who made you feel vaguely wrong without doing anything obvious enough for you to trust the feeling. You agreed to dinner again because you worried you were being unfair.

You sat at the restaurant for thirty-six minutes. He never came, because he was already dead. I killed him before your reservation. There. That's the truth. And before you decide this was me losing my shit because some asshole got a second date with you, it wasn't that simple.

I knew what he said about you after the first one.

I heard him telling another man that you were the kind of woman who said no because you wanted somebody to keep trying. He laughed about the way you moved his hand off your knee and said you were "playing shy." He talked about getting you drunk enough that you'd stop being difficult. Said he already knew you wouldn't make a scene because you were too polite for that.

Then he got more specific.

He'd already decided dinner wasn't really the point of the second date. He planned to keep ordering drinks, take you back to his place and push until you stopped fighting him about it. He actually used the words, "She'll give in once she's there."

I could've warned you. I could've let you decide what to do with it, but I didn't.

Maybe he would've chickened out. Maybe something would've interrupted him. Maybe you would've realized what he was before he ever managed to get you alone.

I wasn't willing to gamble you on maybe.

So I killed him.

You're going to be angry that I took that choice from you. You should be. I'm not going to call murder romantic just because I did it for you.

I don't regret that he's gone. That's the ugly truth. You keep waiting for some tragic little story that explains me, and there isn't one. Some parts of me are fucked up. I know it and I still sleep fine. You're the first person who's ever made me stop and think, fuck, maybe I should care what this does to her. That wouldn't normally matter to me, but it does when it comes to you.

Anyway, before I get any more disgustingly honest, let's go back to the dress.

In my mind I picture you wearing it, we're standing in front of a mirror again. You've got the velvet mask on, and the lipstick too. You're wearing the dress because you wanted to wear it, and this time when you look at yourself you don't immediately start fucking with the fabric or turning sideways to see whether another angle makes your waist look smaller.

You just look at yourself, and at me behind you… standing so close you can feel me there. I unzip the dress slowly while you watch it happen in the mirror. Every time you try to look away, I tell you to look at yourself again.

I'd take my time with the zipper and watch the impatience build. The zipper would finally reach the bottom, and I'd slide my hands around your waist while you watched us in the mirror. And when you tried to look away, I'd stop you.