His response flashes back fast.
10:30. Be ready.
A tremor rolls through me. Control and caution slip. Everything sane in me slips. I type before I can stop myself.
Do you want me blindfolded?
A pause. Barely a second. Then?—
No. Be naked. Lights off. No blindfold or mask tonight. Only the darkness will hide my face.
The words hit with the force of a hand closing around my throat, thrilling in a way that makes my thighs press together. My fingers tighten around the phone, the edge of danger sharp enough to taste.
It feels like stepping into darkness with no promise of where the floor ends or the fall begins. And I want the drop. All of it.
Yes, My Wolf.
That’s my good girl.
Case files reclaim my attention for a while, spread in strict lines across the table. I force myself into the rhythm, highlighting testimony, flagging exhibits, tightening notes for the morning. My focus is sharp, almost aggressive, but it frays at the edges every time my mind drifts to him.
His messages thread themselves through the margins of my work, slipping between sentences and cross-references until my pulse competes with the ticking of the clock.
When the hour gets too close to ignore, I push back from the table and head for the shower.
Steam fills the bathroom in slow waves, fogging the mirror until the world outside the glass disappears. Hot water runs over my shoulders and down my spine, loosening muscles that have been coiled all day. I shave and moisturize every inch of skin, working lotion into my legs until my hands glide.
Perfume follows: one spritz at the base of my throat, another at my hipbones, a final one at the tops of my inner thighs. Subtle andintimate—the kind meant for closed spaces and a man who will be close enough to breathe it in.
My hair takes time. Long strokes through the length, the brush guiding it into a tight ponytail at the crown of my head. Easy for him to grab, easy for him to pull.
I towel off, clearing a streak on the fogged mirror. My reflection looks back, flushed and more than ready.
“Get over here, My Wolf, and fuck me senseless,” I whisper to the glass.
In the bedroom, my newest playlist hums to life. “Novacane” by Shearwater slips through the speakers, low and dark.
Cool sheets wait as the clock edges toward go-time. Every breath is a countdown.
The bedroom sinks into darkness. I lie back on the cool sheets, naked, the playlist humming low at my side. “Strange Effect,” by Unloved and Raven Violet, seeps through the speaker—moody and slow, a seduction with teeth.
My eyes stay fixed on the doorway even though there’s nothing to see. Every quiet pop and groan of the old house amps my pulse. Every whisper of sound could be his footsteps.
My mind drifts to the last time we were together. The memory is sharp enough to make me arch my back off the mattress.
I swallow, throat tight, and whisper into the dark, “Come ruin me.”
There’s nothing left to do but wait. For the footsteps. The click of the lock. The moment the darkness stops being empty.
And so I wait.
The door opens with a soft creak that slides straight through the darkness, and my pulse jumps. Then the door clicks shut behind him.
Heat sparks beneath my skin, thrumming through every inch of me. I tip my head toward the sound, voice low and wicked, meant to hook him the second he steps inside. “My pussy’s so wet for you it’s embarrassing. Get over here and fuck me.”
Silence answers me.
Odd. He usually has something filthy to say—something dark and depraved to match the invitation.
