I reach for the lid again.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is lingerie.
Deep blue lace.
Not navy, but something richer, darker. The color of midnight.
A bra and matching panties.
Sexy. Delicate. Expensive-looking.
Very expensive-looking.
I touch the edge of the lace with one finger and immediately know I am right.
This is no department store lingerie. This is not even special-occasion lingerie I would buy after having a small financial crisis at the register.
I find the label.
Then nearly drop the bra.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
I know the brand.
Of course I know the brand. I have seen it in glossy advertisements and definitively closed the tab after seeing the price of one bra. Not even a set. Not with matching panties. Just the bra.
I could not justify spending this much on lingerie if I lived to be a hundred and won the lottery.
And he put it in my office.
Just sitting on the desk like this.
Heat crawls up my neck, and there’s a sudden, vicious memory of his hands ripping lace apart like it was nothing.
My knees feel a little weak, and I’m grateful I’m sitting.
Friday night comes back in a flash.
His mouth hovering inches above where I need it.
His eyes watching me intently.
The sound of lace tearing.
My gasp.
The shock of it. The sheer, filthy heat of it.
I had never had a man rip anything off me before. I had certainly never expected to like it.
This is not acceptable workplace behavior.
I am sitting in my office at nine-something on a Monday morning with a mountain of work waiting for me.
And all I can think about is the sound of lace ripping.
I lift the bra out of the tissue paper.
