I’m too much of a coward to put on the full cut-out outfit, so I pick the soft netted panties that feel like a whisper against my skin, and the balconette bra that lifts my breasts and leaves the tops bare.
Then I add the fishnet stockings and strap on the slutty hot pink heels.
A smile tugs at my lips as I gaze at myself in the mirror.
“Half slut, half good girl,” I mutter.
It shouldn’t cheer me up. But it does. A little.
I pace the room in the ridiculous heels. They’re nothing like pointe shoes. Less pain, but way more instability. Like walking on the edge of a decision you can’t take back.
Yikes. I’ve done that a lot.
I look somewhere between high-class escort and drunk heiress playing dress-up.
If I had a feather boa, the look would be complete.
Or a tie.
Ooh. A tie. Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip into the hallway and into Declan’s room next to mine.
His space smells like him. It’s all smoke and clean soap and something dark and male I don’t have a name for. The air feels warm. Lived-in. The kind of room that makes you think what you see is who he is. No masks. No games.
Rooms don’t lie. People do.
I walk into his closet. That’s where I find the bags from the sex shop. I pick one up and look inside to find panties with two small dildos and a remote app. I drop the bag like it scorches my fingers.
Jesus. I lust after the man enough. I don’t need his toy arsenal added to my mental highlight reel.
His ties are on the shelf above. I thumb through them. Silk, expensive, classic. My fingers stop on one that doesn’t match the others.
It’s paisley with purples, blues, and one tiny splash of yellow.
I squint. “Is that a duck?”
Of course it’s a duck.
The label on the back is from London. Not novelty. Not tacky. Retro and subtle, playful only if you’re close enough to see.
Of course he owns something like this. Of course it makes me want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.
I loop it around my neck and roam the rest of the room.
His clothes are exactly what I’d expect. Suits, t-shirts, and jeans. Not a lot, but enough to build a hundred different versions of Declan Murphy—nightclub kingpin, street thug, charming date, terrifying executioner.
The books scattered around are mainly thrillers; although, I do see a few history books, and one with a Gaelic title. His laptop is covered in stickers. There’s a photo of a vintage red hot rod that sits on the coffee table. Next to it, is a pile of books about caring for that type of car.
I don’t think he owns one. If he did, he’d find a way to drive it through Manhattan traffic just to scare people.
I stop myself from opening drawers and medicine cabinets. Anything that screamsI care enoughto snoop.
Instead, I flop on his sofa and grab the notebook on the side table. I can’t draw, so I start doodling words instead. Random phrases at first. Then lines about security. Protection. The way he moves when he’s working. How many times I’ve seen people look relieved when he walks into a room, which startles the shit out of me because…why have I noticed?
From there it turns into something else. A business plan. An actual one. Step by step. A legit security company that’s still very much mafia-adjacent.
I’ve watched Mom dance on the line between legal and criminal for years. I know how this works. I know what sells.
Declan would be terrifyingly good at it.
