The weight of it surprises me. Not heavy exactly, but substantial in that way truly expensive things are. The lace is like water beneath my fingers, the stitching nearly invisible, every detail designed with obscene care.
The panties are worse, yet so beautiful.
Barely there.
Completely impractical.
Exactly the kind of thing a woman would wear if she knew a man was going to take his time looking.
My face burns.
I look at the tag and lift my brows.
My size.
Exactlymy size.
Not guessed in that broad, optimistic way men guess bra sizes and get wrong.
This is exact.
Band. Cup. Panty size.
Of course.
Mario Conti is a man who notices everything.
A man who had his hands on every inch of me. A man who had taken off my bra himself, dragged my panties down, then destroyed them with absolutely no remorse.
And remembered the details well enough to replace lingerie with the correct size and a price tag that makes my credit card whine.
This is insane.
Thoughtful. Invasive. Arrogant.
Hot.
It is all of those things at once.
I set the bra back in the tissue paper carefully, as if it might detonate.
Then I pick up the note again.
To replace what I destroyed.
That is all.
No apology because he is not sorry.
Not even a little bit.
He destroyed my underwear, which was nice but certainly nothing special, then apparently decided the appropriate response was to replace it with something that costs more than I make in a month.
Maybe two.
I press the note against the desk and close my eyes.
I need to work.
