The Weight of Silk

He thinks this is about the silk slip, doesn’t he? The way it barely contains anything, how his imagination will fill in the gaps.
He’s not wrong to think that. I like watching him watch me, a quiet power play of glances and held breaths. He sends flowers after every meeting; lilies, always lilies.
It's irritatingly predictable.
But then he looks at me like *that*—a gaze too slow, too thorough, lingering on the curve of my collarbone or the way light catches in my hair—and I remember why I keep answering his calls. It’s not about control; it's a dance. A dangerous one.
The bathroom is cold against my skin, but the anticipation is warming me up nicely.

Editor: Sharp Anna