And now he was taking what I’d offered—my secrecy, my attention, my obedience—one quiet command at a time.
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan again, listening to it spin like it always had, while my mind ran a loop: plane, New York, summit, dinner.
Hunter.
I pictured him the way my body wanted to picture him: broad-shouldered, steady hands, a presence that filled a room without noise. A man who didn’t knock. A man who didn’t soften.
My phone stayed silent.
But his instructions stayed inside me, threaded into my thoughts.
At five a.m., I got up and showered. Not because I needed to. Because the heat under my skin had nowhere else to go.
The water ran hot, then cold, and I stood there until my body felt like it belonged to me again.
Then I stepped out, towel-dried my hair, and went to my dresser.
I stared at the lace drawer.
Don’t wear panties, he’d said.
I should’ve ignored him.
I should’ve done the opposite out of spite.
Instead, my fingers hovered over the fabric like I was standing at the edge of something.
I imagined him somewhere north, already awake. Already sure. Already knowing I’d hesitate.
I swallowed and shut the drawer.
No panties.
My cheeks burned as I dressed—again in ivory and black, because it was safe and sharp and my armor had to be perfect if I was going to do this. An ivory turtleneck. Black trousers. Wool coat. Boots. Gold chain.
And underneath it all, nothing.
It felt obscene. It felt ridiculous. It felt like a secret.
Every step through my condo made me hyperaware of my body. The brush of fabric. The cool air. The fact that I was doing something I’d never done before for no reason except a man I hadn’t met had told me to.
A man I had asked for.
When the car service arrived—black sedan, tinted windows, driver in a suit—I didn’t flinch.
I should have.
But when the driver said, “Ms. Quinn? I’m here to take you to the airport,” my stomach flipped with a dark thrill.
Because it had begun.
Not with a knock on my door.
Not with a stranger in my living room.
