Not because I don’t want it.
God, I do.
It’s perfect. Filthy and sweet.
Just like the thoughts I’ve already had about Vitaly nipping at the fabric.
But because this man?
This man needs to bend me over his lap in that sad little dressing room with the broken lock.
And I can’t think about that until I know him.
Why the fuck is he watching me?
I can’t let him see what underwear I picked before I know him.
Before I’ve done my research.
Before I’m sure pink is the right choice.
What if it’s too much?
What if he sees it and thinks I’m cheap?
Or trying too hard?
What if he likes women in boring beige or tragic lace cut for sadness?
Or worse, granny panties?
Nope.
No.
Not risking it.
I return the panties.
Try not to look at him.
Keep him in my peripheral.
He hasn’t clocked me watching him back.
I think.
Try to smile casually at the mannequin.
Like this is normal.
Like I’m not spiraling.
Try not to think about the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
So fucking attentive.
I run a finger through my hair.
