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I strip off my robe and toss it onto the bed. The guest bed. I haven’t slept in the master room since Nathan passed and the clothes in this wardrobe are all new. As is the bedding and the accessories. My first attempt at making this house a home again.
I lift my bra, already laid out on the bed, and slip it on along with its matching thong, their colour the perfect match for the burgundy bodycon dress I’ve chosen to wear. I step into it and fasten it up the back. It’s the first time I’ve worn it. Nathan would never have approved of the daring colour but as I turn to look in the mirrored door of the wardrobe I smile and smooth my hands down my hips. Turn this way and that.
It’s perfect and it makes me feel good...except...
I frown as I feel the ridge of my thong through the slim-fitting fabric and eye the mirror closely.
Not so perfect.
I check the rear, the front again, do a little wriggle as I try to reposition the band and make it invisible.
Blasted VPL. It’s not happening.
I look to the closed door, beyond which Valentine is waiting down the stairs, and ponder the idea of going to dinner with him and whoever else he has lined up minus my teeny tiny slip of a thong.
I mean, it’s hardly covering much anyway, not really, and so...
Little flutters start to erupt deep inside me. It’s not something I’ve ever done before but hey, it’s another for the bucket list...
But it’s crazy.
A good...seriously daring...weird kind of crazy.
And hell, it beats the way I felt when I first entered the bedroom. This brings back the thrill of being near Valentine again, of having his scent fill my kitchen and his eyes burn into mine.
I smile as I bend forward and part the slit that runs up one thigh, reaching beneath to tug off my thong. I’ve already forgone the tights, my legs are glossed and primed to be unveiled tonight. It seems my bare pussy is too... I can’t quite quash the giddy and disbelieving laugh that erupts as I toss the strip of lace back onto the bed and smooth my dress back down. I eye the mirror—There. Perfect.
I slide my feet into my waiting shoes. They’re classic black with killer heels, something Nathandidapprove of, so walking in them is a breeze, and I lift my black clutch off the bed. It’s already loaded up with my purse, lipstick and phone, and as I throw back more of my drink and walk downstairs I feel ready for anything.
‘Valentine!’ I call from the hallway, placing the half-finished drink on the console table—sans coaster, how daring. ‘I’m good to go.’
He appears in the kitchen doorway and my breath stutters. I’m fully aware of how he looks, I saw him not fifteen minutes ago, but seeing him again...he’s just lethal. Lethal to my sanity, my neglected libido, everything.
And I’d feel foolish for my sudden immobilisation if it wasn’t for the fact that I get the distinct impression he’s suffering too.
‘You look...’ he breaks off, his fingers upsetting his well-coiffed hair so that my fingers no longer have to, though the fantasy of it persists ‘...great.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t move and I play with the clutch in my hand. ‘So...should we...you know...go?’
He snaps into action, so quickly I have to swallow another impulsive laugh. Because, truth is, I’m not amused by his temporary stupor, I’m flattered, more flattered than is safe for my heart that is always too eager to please. I’ve gone too many years caring about what everyone else thinks, about what everyone else wants. And I don’t want to care like that again.
He walks past me and I follow, enjoying the way his fresh cologne hangs in the air between us, the way his broad shoulders feel like a protective shield of sorts. Nathan wasn’t small by any means, but he wasn’t as broad or as muscular as Valentine so obviously is and as I’m behind him I get to enjoy it right up until the moment he turns... My brows lift, my smile feeling too wide to be natural as I mask my wayward thoughts.
He pulls open the door, his eyes not quite reaching mine as he gestures. ‘After you...’
‘Thank you.’
I flick the latch as I pass and keep on going. I don’t trust myself not to do something foolish when I’m too close to him. Like jump his bones right on my doorstep or, worse, admit to my lack of a social circle, admit that I’m lonely, that I don’t want to be tied to another, led around by another, but neither do I want to live like this.
‘Do you need to lock up?’ he calls after me.
‘No, the latch will get it.’
He pulls the door closed and comes up behind me before I can even reach the garden gate, his arm sweeping in front of me to open it.
I smile up at him. ‘Can’t cope with a woman opening her own gate?’
