A business arrangement forced us together.
His power keeps us tangled.
And every time I try to pull away... I want him even more.
" * " indicate more mature/ explicit scenes, the more the spicier
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AMIRA
I shouldn't be this tired.
It wasn't just the meeting. Or the heels. Or the forced smiles. It was everything. The way the glass walls reflected things I wish I could unsee. The way he looked at me like he owned everything in the room, including me. Like my very breath belonged to him.
The city blurs past my windshield, all neon halos and flickering red lights. My makeup is still intact. My everyday soft beat that enhances my natural beauty. My composure, less so.
My hand is steady on the wheel, but my mind is anywhere but here.
"Tres Semanas." I say to myself out loud while shaking my head
Three weeks of avoiding him like it was easy. Like it didn't cost me every ounce of pride I had. Like it didn't bother me that he didn't check in. That he didn't care. But I can't even be mad because from the outside looking in, I couldn't give less of a fuck
And then he touched me.
Again.
Like he forgot who I was.
Like he remembered exactly what I liked.
I shift in my seat, jaw clenched. I hate that I can still feel him. Hate that the ghost of his hands lingers heavier than most men's presence. I blast the AC. It doesn't help.
At a red light, I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes for a second too long. His voice creeps in anyway.
"Keep pushing me, Amira..."
I exhale sharply and shake it off. No. Nope. Not doing this. I scroll through my mental list of reasons not to give a damn: A. He left without a word. B. He didn't text. C. He didn't call. D. He left like he always planned to, like nothing happened.
So why does it feel like everything did?
I pull up to my apartment building just before midnight, muscles aching and eyes heavy. The building is quiet, the doorman gives me a nod, and I ride the elevator up without checking my phone.
Home smells like fresh linen and frebreeze from the hourly automatic dispenser. Like peace I haven't earned yet.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door, kick off my heels, and peel my blazer off. I'm halfway to throwing myself face-down on the couch when I see it.
A box.
Small. Black. Matte ribbon.
It's sitting on my kitchen counter like it's been waiting for me.
No sender name.
No note on the outside.
I stare at it for a beat, debating if I even have the energy for this. I cave. Of course I do.
