Part 1 - What He Saw
Late summer. The heat clings to the walls, to my skin, to something deeper.
I stand barefoot on cool tile, brushing my hair in front of the mirror. Thick blonde strands fall slow and smooth over my shoulders.
My lips are already painted. Red. I tilt my chin, adjust the line with one fingertip. Not to seduce. Just to test the look.
I'm naked. My skin still carries the sun-- that slow, humming heat that sinks deep and lingers.
I turn to the side and study my tan lines. Faint, narrow. Perfectly sharp across hips and breasts--lines that betray the bikini. A micro triangle, no more. The kind meant to show skin, not hide it.
They make me look... styled. Like someone had chosen exactly how much of me the sun was allowed to touch.
I push my breasts together in both hands. squeeze them and picture what they can do. They move gently in my palms, up and down and I laugh a little. Big enough... for that.
My fingers trace down across my belly. A light tap, twice--then lower, through the soft blonde bush between my thighs. Two fingers continue on their own. A slow, curious press. Just to see which mood it's in.
The answer comes quickly. A deep, pulsing yes.
I turn again. My hands move over the curves of my hips, then drift lower--slow and searching. Fingertips slide across the smooth shape of my butt, tracing the heat still clinging to skin. I follow the line down--past the small of my back, into that soft fold where the sun barely reached. It's there I remember him most clearly.
The man from St. Barts. The sunburnt, muscled surfer who couldn't stop staring at this. He parted me like this. Looked at me like no one else had. Pressed his tongue between and made me forget my name.
My hand imitates his. I trace inward. Soft, slow pressure around the tightest part of me. Not entering. A memory, replayed on my own skin.
I breathe in deep. Eyes locked with my own in the mirror. The spell breaks--time to get dressed.
The dress waits on the back of the chair. A splash of color against the neutral room. The fabric is soft, fluid--meant to move. The neckline dips low, but not too low. Just enough to invite quiet questions. Not the obvious kind, but the ones that linger: What kind of woman chooses this? What kind of softness hides behind that curve? What does she offer?
It suggests more than it shows. Hints more than it tells. And that's exactly the point.
I slip it over my head and let it fall--long, loose, and open where it matters. The buttons begin just below the deep neckline... and stop somewhere high on the thigh. Light, airy. Cool against warm skin. No bra. No panties. Not today. Not in this heat.
My breasts stay in place by themselves. The fabric shows nothing--unless you're looking. Then it shows everything. The curve. The lift. The subtle push of nipples beneath. Not obscene. Just... noticeable. Enough to draw a second glance. Maybe a third.
Each step teases more skin than the last. It moves with me, parting slightly at the slit, then falling back into place. When I stop, it hugs the shape of my legs like it remembers where to stay.
I lift my chin. Hold my gaze in the mirror for a beat. Then turn, grab my keys--
--and a few minutes later, I'm on my way to pick it up.
Part 2 - The package
The sun is still beating down as I walk. The sidewalk radiates heat beneath my feet; the air hangs thick across my skin.
I take the long way, drifting past a storefront to catch my reflection in the glass. The dress moves just right--soft, weightless. The hem flicks up in the breeze, then drops again. Exactly how I imagined it.
But the moment doesn't land.
I'm not met with the looks I wanted. Not the kind that linger, that say yes, I want you. A few glances, sure--glancing and gone. Nothing that stirs. Nothing that holds.
One man inside the shop lifts his gaze, then back to his phone. Another walks past, close enough to smell, and doesn't even tilt his head. It's not rejection. It's something emptier.
I feel the absence of attention more than I would have felt the attention itself. A strange kind of silence.
My pace slows as the corner store comes into view. Tucked between a hair salon and a gaming store, the kind of place no one notices until they need it.
The door opens with a chime.
Two guys behind the counter. One of them--tall, slim, long dark hair loose around his shoulders--looks up right away. His black T-shirt hugs a lean frame, faded and frayed at the edges. Worn jeans hang low on narrow hips. He has that unbothered roughness, like he hasn't polished anything in years, least of all himself. But his eyes are steady. Curious. Not hungry. Not boyish. Just alert. Like he's seen too much to be surprised, but still wants to know what I'll do next.
The other guy barely looks up. Baseball cap low, face half-hidden. His thumb scrolls, bored and mechanical. He leans against the back shelves like he's somewhere else already-- the type who assumes girls will come to him, eventually. But his indifference is all wrong. Empty. Rehearsed. The kind that doesn't draw you in, just slides off.
"Package?" the first one asks, voice low, offering a small smile.
I nod and hold out my phone.
"1244-75," he says simply.
The other grunts, disappears behind a curtain.
Some rustling. A muffled curse.
Then he returns, empty-handed. "Nothing there."
"It says delivered," I say. "Yesterday."
"Then it's probably misfiled."
I look at him. Not sharp. Not irritated. Just still. Long enough to let the quiet stretch.
"I'd like to check myself," I say.
The long-haired one meets my eyes, raises a brow--then steps aside and slides open a section of the counter.
"Be my guest."
I step behind it. The air is warm, motionless. Boxes everywhere, stacked in rough rows, without much logic. Shelves close, hard to navigate.
I move slowly. Fingers brush cardboard edges, skim labels, follow seams.
It doesn't take long.
There it is. My name. Right size. Right weight.
It's mine.
I lift it from the shelf.
Footsteps behind me. He's followed.
"That one," he says, but his eyes aren't on the box. They're on me. "They didn't log it right."
I don't answer. I hold it tighter, press it to my chest like a shield. One that hides nothing.
"It's mine," I say. Soft. Steady.
He doesn't argue. But the moment shifts. Something tilts in the room--subtle, but real.
As I turn to go, his hand finds my shoulder. Light. Warm. Not stopping me--just keeping me there.
I pause for a second and tilt my head just slightly. That's all it takes. He reads it and understands.
Then it moves. Slides downward. Past the curve of my back. Over my ass. Along the outside of one thigh, down to the hem of the dress.
There, he pauses.
Then his hand begins to rise again, this time on the inside. Fingertips gliding up along bare skin.
They reach the crease where thigh meets cheek-- that soft, hidden fold. He stops there.
Waiting.
I don't move. Don't speak. But I stay.
I know what this is.
I shift forward just a little, letting my hips tilt, the crease stretches and the skin smoothes in his hand.
His fingers move again. Slow. Exploring. Certain.
He glides upward first--over one cheek, high enough to discover what isn't there.
Nothing.
I'm bare.
He pauses. Then shifts lower. Draws between, letting a fingertip pass along the split. Just brushing, light as breath-- and it sends me straight back to St. Barts.
I inhale. My mind flickers--wondering if he'll go there.
He doesn't. Just moves over it. A whisper of touch. Then forward, between.
I'm warm. Open. Wet.
Part 3 - On My Knees
