Sleeveless. Soft square neckline. Ribbed knit that hugged without begging. Close enough to my skin tone that, at first glance, it almost disappeared. My breasts looked fuller. My waist looked smaller. My hips looked like they had every intention of making a man gather himself before he spoke.
Good.
I wanted Micah halfway to begging for something I was still pretending I might not give him.
By the time I had gotten home and dropped my bag on the console table, my whole body had already been tuned to the night. Not frantic. Just alive in that low, dangerous way that made everything feel more charged than it had any business feeling. The air in my townhouse. The light slipping gold through the windows. My heels lined up by the wall like they were waiting to be chosen. All of it felt like scenery for something I had not quite admitted I wanted as badly as I did.
So I went straight to the shower because standing still felt foolish.
Hot water first. Then lotion. Then oil worked into my skin until it glowed. The small, private rituals of a woman getting ready for a man she wanted very badly and was not about to let him know too soon.
I wanted to look like myself.
I also wanted to do damage.
The caramel dress had been the answer before I even touched another hanger.
I stepped into it slowly, pulled it down over my body, and watched the woman in the mirror become more dangerous by the second.
Damn.
I added the rest with care. Gold choker. Hoops. Bangles. Diamond bracelet. Little diamond studs in my second and third piercings. Nude heels. Bronze lipstick. Brown liner and shadow soft enough to warm my eyes without doing too much. Perfume at my wrists, behind my knees, at the center of my chest, and under my ears where a man had to earn the truth of it.
When I looked in the mirror again, I did not look uncertain.
I looked like I knew exactly what I was doing.
My phone buzzed while I was still adjusting one earring.
Micah: I’m outside. Take your time.
My pulse kicked once, low and hard.
I grabbed my bag, cut the lights, and headed downstairs before I could stand there any longer letting the mirror talk me into more mischief.
The evening had gone blue at the edges by the time I stepped outside, warm enough for bare arms and soft enough for perfume to carry properly. Micah was leaning against his truck with one hand in his pocket when I came out.
Whatever he had been about to say died somewhere between his chest and his mouth.
Exactly.
His eyes found me and stayed there. The neckline first. Then my waist. Then lower, to my hips, like the dress had personally offended his self-control.
He pushed off the truck slowly.
And damn, he was something to look at himself.
The short-sleeved knit fit close across his chest and arms, dark against his skin, the fabric stretching just enough over the thick build of him to remind me that Micah was not some slim pretty man in good clothes. He was broad through the shoulders, heavy in the chest, built through the arms and torso in that grown-man way that suggested strength you did not have to ask about. His jeans sat low on his hips, and the long line of him moved with that quiet, masculine confidence some men spent years trying to fake and never learned.
The watch at his wrist caught the porch light as he came closer, followed by the flash of the diamond stud in his ear. His fade was fresh, his jaw carved into place, and by the time his eyes moved over me, his mouth shifted like he was trying not to say exactly what he was thinking.
“Fuck, Talia,” he said softly, then shook his head. “This what you call comfortable?”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could help it. “What’s more comfortable than being in my own skin?”
His eyes went darker at that.
“See,” he muttered, stepping closer to open the passenger door, “you say shit like that on purpose.”