Page 135 of Their Arrangement
By the time I finished lacing, I was already breathless. Already wet. Already burning from the inside out.
The silk blouse came next. Blush pink. Soft as breath. Transparent when kissed by the light. The kind of fabric that begged for a gaze.
The kind of shirt you wear to be noticed and punished for it. The skirt followed—tight, sleek, the slit a little too high, the fit a little too unforgiving. Then the stockings. The garter. The heels.
No perfume. No distraction. Let them smell me.
I paused at the mirror again before leaving. Wolfe’s voice whispered in my head. Barron’s silence curled at the base of my spine.
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t look away. Because I wasn’t dressing for attention anymore.
I was dressing for consequence. The elevator doors slid open and I stepped into the hallway like I belonged there. Not quiet. Not careful. Claimed.
The first thing I noticed wasn’t the hum of the building or the hush of the bullpen. It was sensation.
The way the silk blouse whispered across my skin with every step. The corset kept my ribs tight, spine rigid, breath shallow. The lace beneath my skirt stuck to the inside of my thighs, already damp with want.
I walked like I knew it. Like I wanted them to see it. There was nothing modest in the way my skirt clung to my hips. Nothing reserved in the sway of my step. My thighs brushed. Thick. Full. Deliberate.
Let them look.
My heels echoed down the tile. Sharp. Steady. Like a ticking timebomb.
Every movement reminded me of what I was wearing. Every swing of my hips reminded me why I’d chosen it. I wasn’t dressed to perform. I was dressed to provoke. To obey. To bleed power from silk and lace. And I was beginning to love how that felt.
Royal was the first to notice. He turned from the espresso machine, caught mid-stir, his eyes dragging down my body like a slow burn.
He grinned.
Low.
Hungry.
“Someone’s ready to get ruined before breakfast.”
I didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch. But the heat that bloomed under my skin said he wasn’t wrong.
Loyal passed me in the corridor. Folder in hand. Eyes forward. But he caught the pull at my blouse—the way the buttons strained across the corset-laced swell of my chest.
He looked away too fast. Too hard. His jaw locked. His hand clenched. And he kept walking. But I felt it. Him. The restraint. The want. Behind the glass—voices murmured. Chairs shifted.
I didn’t have to look to know. They were watching. All of them. I wasn’t invisible anymore. I was present. Poised. Their silent undoing. And I walked through it like shadow given shape.
Heavy.
Hot.
Mine.
By the time I reached my desk, I could feel the lace soaked through. The silk clung between my breasts. The corset was a pulse in my ribs. And still—I sat. Crossed my legs. Opened my laptop.
As if I hadn’t just walked through the entire Lawlor floor like a fucking offering. As if I hadn’t just felt every set of eyes trace the slit in my skirt, the arch of my back, the slow sway of my hips as I passed.
I clicked into a spreadsheet. Pretended to work. But my breath was shallow. My hands were trembling. And my core pulsed in time with every shift of the corset against my ribs.
I was soaked. Not figuratively. Literally. Dripping.
The lace was warm and tight against my skin. Every movement dragged moisture higher. Every second that passed made it worse.
