Prada. YSL. Celine. Chanel.
All in my size.
I was surprised to find a few pairs of designer heels that fit perfectly.
And when I opened the last package, I discovered an insane amount of lingerie. And not the super skimpy stuff that woulddig into my skin. The box was full of beautiful lace bras I can wear under a dress shirt for a night out if I’m feeling daring.
I emailed him immediately after.
His response had been immediate.
I haven’t referenced the lingerie again after I thanked him via email. But every time we’ve seen each other at the office since then, I sense his eyes scanning me from top to bottom, as if he hopes he can see through my professional clothes to discover what I’m wearing underneath.
I hope he’s adequately tortured, believing I am indeed fully dressed in every stitch of clothing bought by him.
I know I’m playing a dangerous game, but we all have our vices. And secretly, Nick is mine.
My phone rings on my nightstand.
I don’t recognize the number that has a few more digits than a local number should. I hope no one has gotten a hold of my private number, because it’d be a real bitch to change it and update every online shopping account I have linked to it.
I answer the call but don’t speak, in case it’s a rowdy fan or a wrong number calling.
“Luisa Marie Álvarez. What. The.Fuck. Was. That?”
I bolt up in bed and look around my room, as if a growly Nick Stonehaven is about to barge into my home.
“How did you get my number?” I ask stupidly. The man has more than enough resources to find my number, including my personnel file.
But up until this moment, we’ve never spoken on the phone or even texted, keeping it strictly to email.
“Luisa,” he warns, his voice dropping an octave.
“Lucifer,” I say innocently, my brain catching up on why he’s probably calling.
“I’m going to be very clear here, so listen closely,” he starts.
I immediately clamp my thighs together at his demanding tone.
“I’ve been on my best behavior here. Truthfully, I could be considered a monk at this point. I’ve respected your wishes. I’ve treated you with nothing but respect in front of our staff and have even let your bratty ways slide when you try to push my buttons.”
“I’d hardly call you a saint, Luci. Last week you pulled my hair when—”
“If you think you can mention wearing a piece of lingerie, one I’ve handpicked for you, and expect me to not crash through every door to get a good look for myself, then you’re dangerously unaware of the frail tether of restraint I’m holding on to.”
I gasp, and he releases a sinister chuckle.
“Yes, Angel. Now you’re getting it.”
“That’s not—We’re not, uh.”
“Trust me, I’m painfully aware.” I hear him groan faintly, as if he’s pulled the phone away from his face momentarily. “But justbecause I’ve shown I can be on my best behavior, that doesn’t mean you can taunt me mercilessly.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No, I didn’t. I was only stating the facts. Maybe I can concede that it was a bit of a tease, but nothing more than usual,” I venture.
“Save your excuses for another time, Luisa. Because we are going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all. I expect you in my office tomorrow at eight a.m., and we’re going to have a long overdue conversation.”
His voice brooks no room for argument.
