Page 43 of Desperate Crimes
The second the silk glides across my skin, I sigh—a sound that surprises even me.
It’s just so soft, like a whispered promise against my bare skin.
It wraps around me with perfect ease, falling just to mid-thigh, the sash cinching at my waist like it was made for me.
Maybe it was.
And that thought alone sends a fresh wave of nerves through me.
I step back into the bedroom, calmer now, robe tied tight, body buzzing with low-grade awareness I don’t want to name.
I climb into the bed, sinking into the mattress, the sheets cool against my legs as I lay back.
And then—click.
The lights go out.
Completely.
My breath catches in my throat.
It doesn’t just switch to pitch black like before—not exactly.
This is intentional.
The lights dim progressively, smoothly, gradually, like a theater curtain falling until they reach that impossible darkness. Until I can’t see anything at all.
My pulse thuds in my ears.
He said they’d turn on when he left. That I should rest.
But they’re off now. So, what does that mean?
I’m alone, wrapped in silk and shadows and tension, and rest feels like the last thing I want.
My skin prickles. My body hums.
And somewhere, tangled in the mess of fear and curiosity and adrenaline, something else rises.
Anticipation.
Fuck. Am I really lying here thinking about this like it’s the opening scene to one of my mother’s novels?
Holding on to my virginity for twenty-four years like it was something sacred—guarded, hidden, protected like a secret I didn’t even know I was keeping.
And now?
Now I’m lying in a stranger’s bed, wearing a silk robe he picked out for me, wondering what it would feel like if he just took the choice from me.
Is that what I want?
Do I really want to be claimed?
Ravished? Ruined?
The worst part is, I don’t even know what he looks like.
I don’t know his name. His face.
