Page 30 of Lady and the Butcher
I wanted to run back to the familiar, to the places where I knew every corner and every scent, where I blended in instead of sticking out like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s fantasy.
But then came the guilt, sharp and immediate. Shouldn’t I have enough self-esteem to stand here? To believe I deserved this, deserved him, deserved whatever came next? The fact that I was even questioning it made me restless. Made me angry at myself.
I wanted to shrink away and rise taller at the same time.
For a moment, I just stood there, blouse clinging, heart pounding. I could tell him to leave. Ask for privacy. Draw a line.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I unbuttoned my blouse one slow press at a time, my fingers fumbling more than I wanted them to. Each button undone felt like an admission. By the time the fabric slipped from my shoulders, my skin was flushed hotter than the steam.
I heard him shift behind me—just the quiet drag of breath, the weight of his eyes.
The rest of my clothes followed. My bra. My panties. Every piece left me more exposed, until finally, there was nothing between me and the city but glass, and nothing between me and him but the steam curling in the air.
And God, wasn’t this the worst possible moment to notice every flaw?
The curve of my stomach that softened more than I liked. The faint stretch marks on my hips I usually pretended were constellations. The way my thighs pressed together when I shifted my weight. Under the glare of this suite, with its marble and its glass and its impossible luxury, I felt like my body didn’t belong here—like it was too human, too marked, too real.
Embarrassment crept up hot under my skin, and with it, that familiar war. The one where I reminded myself of every pep talk I’d ever given a client or a friend: confidence is the most attractive thing a woman can wear. Own your body. Own your story.
Men—good men, at least—were drawn to certainty, not perfection. I’d said it a hundred times, believed it for everyone else. Now, it was time to believe it for me.
At least, that’s what I told myself. At least, that’s what I’d always told them.
I stepped under the spray. The water hit hot and heavy, rushing down my shoulders, beading across my chest. I tilted my head back, eyes closing, letting it wash over me. For a few seconds, I could almost believe I was alone.
But I wasn’t.
He was there. Watching.
The thought made my thighs press harder together, shame and hunger twisting tight.
I should’ve hated it. Instead, it felt like every nerve in my body was awake, sparking.
I soaped my skin slowly, deliberately, like my own hands could substitute for his. The water ran slick down my curves. I imagined what he saw—my body framed against the city, the glass turning me into a silhouette, every movement sharpened.
Every time I glanced sideways, I caught him still leaning there, unmoved. Eyes steady, consuming.
He didn’t move to touch me.
And it was driving me insane.
The steam blurred the edges of the glass, but not enough to hide me. Not enough to hide the fact that I was trembling.
I pressed my palms against the marble tile, head tipped forward, water running over my back. Every inch of me knew he was there. Every inch of me wanted to ask him why he didn’t move, why he didn’t close the space and touch me like I’d asked for in that letter.
But the silence was its own answer.
He wanted me to feel this. The anticipation. The exposure. The not-knowing.
My nipples tightened in the spray, sensitive and aching. I soaped them with slow, circular strokes, trying to act casual, like this was just hygiene, not performance. But I felt like I was on stage.
Did he know what he was doing to me?
Of course, he did. That was the whole point.
I dragged the lather lower, down my stomach, over the curve of my hips. My thighs shook when I reached between them, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the water or the fact that I could practically feel his gaze burn through the steam.
