Page 32 of Red Velvet

It was the weirdest thing. I never thought of a bruise as something pretty, something that adorns you rather than defacing you. But with these it's different.

These marks are pretty. They make me proud.

There's a small and demented voice inside me that wants to share them with the world, to show them around like a new piece of jewelry. But of course, there's only one person besides me who should be on the receiving end of that sort of exhibition.

Him.

I placed my phone next to my keyboard and find myself glancing at the display again and again, hoping for the little blinking light that informs me of a new message. He texted me right after taking me home, thanking me for the evening—when I was the one who had every reason to be grateful—and telling me good night.

That was it. We never made plans to see each other again, even though it’s clear that we both want to. I've been holding back on texting him more than a response to express how much I enjoyed last night. He said he doesn't want a girlfriend, and I said I don't want a boyfriend. But what does that really mean now? Would I seem too eager if I messaged him? Or is he waiting for me to ask for another date? I know very little about the kind of relationship we might be about to start, but I thought there would be rules. Rules he dictates. Isn't that how it works?

My heart skips a beat when I see a message pop up on the screen. I try to be nonchalant when I reach for it, then lose another beat when I see it's from him.

It's simple and short, but the words make blush instantly.

How is your pretty ass?

I glance around, cowering as if to hide a sense of guilt. The office is full and busy; no one is paying any attention to me, not even Sybil.

Of course no one’s looking at me. Of course no one cares or suspects a dirty message on my phone. Why would they? I'm Lila, the good girl. The innocent but confused little lady who dumped her long-term fiancé for God knows what reason. Canceling my engagement was the craziest thing I've ever done, according to everyone who knows me.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The secretive nature of my recent experience only enhances the hot spice it came with.

Sore and painted with pretty colors. You were right, it's impossible to forget about last night.

I stare at the screen for a few seconds, pondering ways to improve my wording. Is it too much? Too naughty? Probably not, not for him. Is it too intimate? Where does he draw the line?

How the hell am I supposed to know?

I hit Send and close my eyes, as if I’m bracing for an explosion.

I should probably put my phone away so I can finally focus on my job. Instead I place it on the desk right next to my computer so I can see the display without having to turn my head. My heart races as I anxiously await a response that could be a long time coming. He's probably busy, and unlike me, I'm sure he can't afford to just slack off at his job.

Of course, I'm just assuming. After all, I have no idea what he even does for a living. It's kind of embarrassing. We've done the most intimate thing on a physical level, but I have no idea what his job is. I can only assume it has to be something big, something important, something that means a lot of money and an equal amount of responsibility. After all, he oozes wealth and status, and he moves among the rich like he belongs.

It's almost scary how much he resembles Elene's husband in that regard.

My eyes dart back and forth between the computer screen and my phone, a constant battle between reason and curiosity. It's no surprise that my heart jolts yet again when a new text pops up. I don't even bother to try being cool about it as I reach for my phone eager to read his reply.

Show me.

Just those two words.

I blush as my fingers fly across the display, typing the obvious response to his request.I can't. I'm at work.

This time, only a few seconds pass before another message comes in.

Yes you can. You have three minutes.

Or else?

Do you really want to find out?

Oh my God. Is he serious?I look up from my phone, my eyes traveling through the room in a hurried daze.

Two minutes, thirty seconds.

Shit. He's really serious about this.

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