Twisted Obsession (Editing)

71 - Yours, Always

Athena Luciana Bianchi

I stirred, eyes still half-lidded, as the last blush of daylight stretched long and honeyed across the walls. The air was warm, still touched by the sun, but the shadows creeping in told me it was evening. The sheets beneath me were cool Egyptian cotton, and the room smelled like him — sandalwood, cinnamon, and that faint, dark musk that clung to everything he touched. It was subtle, but it sank into my skin, as if even in his absence, he refused to let me forget.

I turned onto my side and saw it.

A small, folded card sat on my nightstand like it had been waiting all day to be found. Thick paper, sharp creases, his handwriting — confident, dark, and just the right amount of arrogant.

Dinner at 9. Wear the dress I picked.
—L.

I didn't even try to hide the smile that touched my lips.

Typical.

I pushed the covers off and slid my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool against my bare feet as I walked toward the closet — not rushed, not hesitant. Curious. I already knew it would be dramatic. He didn't know how to do simple things.

The doors swung open, and there it was.

Hung like an offering. Or a threat.

A black gown — no, not just black. This was deeper. The kind of black that swallowed moonlight and bled mystery. It was sculpted with intention: the fabric skimmed the body in a single, fluid line all the way to the floor, hugging every curve with a quiet sort of arrogance. There were silver straps at the hips — glittering, deliberate — and a daring slit that hinted at sin without showing too much. The bodice was cut into an asymmetrical wrap around the chest, baring skin in all the right places, and the sleeves draped off-shoulder, dangerously close to falling.

I ran my fingers along the hem. Of course.

And then I saw the box tucked beneath it — black, matte, unmistakable.
Agent Provocateur.

I already knew what it was. But I opened it anyway.

Inside: white lace panties. Just that. No bra. No instructions. Just a soft whisper of ivory, barely-there lace designed to be seen... then torn off.

I let out a quiet laugh, low and amused. He was such an asshole.

I ran my finger over the delicate lace, the kind of thing that said: this wasn't about comfort. This was about being unwrapped like a present — and he knew it.

I exhaled through a quiet laugh and shook my head. "So dramatic," I muttered.

He wanted me to wear this? Fine. I'd wear it. I'd wear the hell out of it. I'd like to see him behave when he sees me in this. I dare him.

I lifted the gown from its hanger, careful not to let it drag — it felt too intentional for that. This wasn't a dress you put on quickly. It deserved reverence. Drama. Theatrics. Of course he knew that.

On my other hand, I held the white lace panties — featherlight, barely there, as if even the fabric was hesitant to exist. I turned with both in my arms and walked back toward the bed, placing them gently on the spread, smoothing the dress out with a few slow strokes of my hand.

It looked like a second version of me laid out — quiet, sharp, dangerous.

The heels were already by the vanity. He'd thought of everything.

Strappy, black stilettos with a silver heel — high enough to make a statement, sleek enough to make it silently. I picked them up and set them at the foot of the bed, then opened the drawer where I kept my travel jewelry.