Today, I have not seen him at all.
And it is driving me insane.
I should be grateful. The distance is sensible and mature. Necessary. There are conflicts and ethics and professionalism and basic self-preservation to consider. One night was already reckless enough. One night was already more than enough trouble.
It should stay one night.
It absolutely should.
One devastating, ill-advised, private lapse in judgment.
Something we don’t repeat.
Except I do not want it to stay one night.
That is the awful, inconvenient, impossible truth sitting under my skin, making me itchy, restless, distracted in a way I despise.
I want him again.
I want his hands on me again. His mouth. His voice in my ear. The weight of him over me. The look in his eyes when his control starts to slip.
I want him to see me in the lingerie.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the spreadsheet on my screen without reading a single line of it.
How would I even make that happen?
Do I walk into his office and say, by the way, thank you for the outrageously expensive underwear, would you like to see it on?
No.
Absolutely not.
I could wait until he says something first.
But he has not said anything, and it’s been a week.
The ugly thought I’ve been pushing away rears its ugly head.
Maybe he does not want to say anything.
Maybe Friday was what it was. One night after two weeks of unbearable tension. Maybe the lingerie really was only a replacement. Expensive, yes, but Mario lives in a world where expensive means something different. Maybe to him, it was the equivalent of replacing a coffee mug.
A lace one with more zeroes than is sensible for a scrap of fabric.
Still.
Maybe he gave it to me because he destroyed something and considers replacement basic manners.
Maybe I am the one making it into something else.
And I could accept all of that if it weren’t for one simple fact. He knew my exact size.
Are there really men who remember things like that if it doesn’t mean anything? Do they exist?
Is that all it was?
Or does he want to see me in it?
