THE PACKAGE HANDLER
The door clicked shut with a soft
thud
, but the sound echoed in her chest.
She stood still for a beat too long, hand resting on the knob, the warmth of his voice still lingering in the hallway like a trail of smoke. "Have a good day, Miss Covington.
"
Smooth. Deep. Casual -- but just enough edge to make her wonder if he
meant
something by it.
Her bare heel shifted slightly on the hallway tile as a small, slow burn curled low in her belly. That... hadn't happened in a long time.
She walked back into the soft-lit calm of her home, the scent of vanilla candles hanging in the air, the hem of her emerald wrap dress whispering against her thigh with every step. Her fingers grazed the high slit -- the same one that had caught
his
eyes when she opened the door. Not that he said anything. But she saw it. The pause. The flicker. The look that lingered half a second longer than it should have.
She knew that look.
She used to
live
for that look.
Dropping into the chair at the edge of her bed, she crossed one leg over the other, letting her fingers trail absently across the smooth dip of her exposed thigh. God, when was the last time she even noticed her own skin?
Lacey exhaled slowly, leaning back against the vanity, her mind already slipping into memory. A dangerous place. But that little moment -- the subtle glance, the polite voice laced with quiet dominance -- had
cracked
something.
Six years.
Six years since she wrote a single line.
Six years since she let her mind wander freely to the kind of thoughts that once made her fingertips tremble over a keyboard.
Six years since she tucked that part of herself away... for
him.
For her husband.
He was a good man. Smart. Loyal. Faithful.
Average.
Average in size. Average in skill.
Safe.
He didn't like Lacey writing those stories. Not anymore. Not once they married. At first, he said he understood. That it was fiction. Fantasy. But when the books started selling, when people
commented
, when the covers grew bolder and the sex more explicit... he asked her to stop.
What he never fully realized -- or maybe refused to -- was that while her stories were written like fantasies, they were built on
truth.
Not every word, of course. But the lust? The domination? The raw, aching hunger for thick, powerful men who took their pleasure unapologetically -- that wasn't made up.
That was her
past
.
The one he claimed to accept... but quietly wished she'd bury.
And because she loved him, she did.
But love doesn't fill every space.
Especially not the ones that
ache.
Lacey stood, peeling off the thin satin wrap she'd thrown over the green dress. Her reflection caught in the mirror -- toned curves, golden skin, thick dark hair tumbling past her shoulders.
She looked...
dangerous.
No, she looked like
herself.
She picked up the small stack of padded envelopes from the dresser. The same packages he'd come to collect. Her old books. Still selling quietly. Still making their way into the hands of strangers -- strangers who didn't even know she'd vanished from the world she once ruled.
Except now, one of those strangers wasn't so anonymous.
And he wasn't a stranger anymore.
Not after the way he looked at her.
And not after the way she
felt
when she looked back.
--------
It had been three days.
Not that she was counting.
But she knew.
Lacey glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall -- ten past noon -- then back toward the window. Nothing yet. She turned, walked to the mirror, and checked herself one more time. The deep burgundy dress hugged her hips just tight enough. She wore it casually -- or at least that's what she told herself -- but the neckline dipped a little lower than usual. The hem just barely kissed mid-thigh.
Her fingers touched her lip gloss. One final swipe. Then came the knock.
Three short raps. Confident. Controlled.
She took her time walking to the door. Let him wait a moment. She opened it slowly, and there he was -- dark skin glowing under the sunlight, muscles flexing under the soft grey of his polo. Sunglasses pushed up on his head, curls just beginning to sweat. And that grin.
"Afternoon, Miss Covington," Trey said, eyes scanning her, pausing -- not too long, just long enough. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
"You're right on time," she said, soft smile playing on her lips. "I've got two packages for you today. Might be a little heavy."
He stepped in slightly, peering past her shoulder. "That right?" His voice dropped, amused. "What are we moving today... bricks?"
"Close." She turned and walked ahead, making sure to sway just enough. "Books."
He followed, eyes trailing down her back. "You must really love reading."
"I used to love writing them more."
He stopped. "Wait -- you wrote these?"
She glanced over her shoulder, playful. "Surprised?"
He smirked. "Depends on the genre."
Lacey leaned down to lift one of the boxes, the hem of her dress rising just enough for his eyes to flicker and
linger
. She straightened and handed him the box. His arms flexed as he took it from her -- and damn if she didn't notice.
She watched his brow arch as he read the shipping label aloud. "'L. Covington... Covington Press... 'Silken Obedience.'"
A beat passed.
Another.
"Is that the title?"
"It is."
He glanced at her. "Sounds... intense."
"It's not
that
bad." She smiled. "Unless you're new to the genre."
"And what genre would that be?"
"Erotica."
His lips curved slowly. "Didn't expect that."
"Why not?" she asked, folding her arms under her chest.
He looked at her -- slow, deliberate. "I don't know. Maybe because you look like you belong on the cover of one, not behind the keyboard."
Lacey's breath hitched. Just barely. But she smiled through it. "Careful, Trey. You keep talking like that and I might start writing again."
He bent slightly to pick up the second box, his voice low. "Then maybe I should read what you already wrote. Get a little... inspired."
Their eyes locked.
Heat. Slow. Heavy. Familiar.
The box in his arms was thick with her past. Bound in paper and ink and memory.
He straightened up, towering slightly over her now. "You want me to drop these off and swing back with a review?"
Her voice barely came out. "Only if it's honest."
"Oh, I don't think I could fake a reaction to something like this," he said, voice velvet-smooth. "Especially if it's... vivid."
He stepped back toward the door, the weight of the books nothing compared to the weight in the air between them.
"I'll be seeing you, Miss Covington," he added, already halfway out.
She stood in the doorway, lips parted, skin humming.
She didn't write again that day.
But her fingers itched.
And for the first time in six years, she wondered what it might feel like to have someone read her words -- not just as fantasy... but as
invitation
.
--------
It was late -- not too late, but past the hour when texts usually feel
professional.
That soft zone between "just a question" and
something else.
Lacey sat curled on the end of her bed, legs tucked under her, glass of red wine in hand. Her phone rested in her palm. The cursor blinked in the message box for too long.
She scrolled up through her delivery confirmation -- the automated notification from earlier that day. There it was: the number attached to Trey's pickup account. Officially, it was the business line.
Unofficially... she was about to blur that line.
She took one last sip, tapped the screen, and typed:
Hi Trey -- this is Lacey Covington. I hope it
'
s okay I
