And on Thursday, Sophia came into the office wearing slacks.
I saw right through her attempt to test my limits. We were playing a different form of chess, and my next move was easy to execute. All it took was one phone call.
Friday morning, I was already in my office when she arrived, waltzing in to deliver my coffee, and for once I was pleased to see she was wearing pants. I gestured to the large, flat white box tied with a silver bow resting on the table in the sitting area.
“That came for you.”
She nearly spilled my coffee as I took the cup from her.
“What is it?” She eyed it warily, like it might explode if she touched it.
I feigned indifference. “Go find out.”
She trudged to the table and picked at the ribbon, tugging slowly until the knot slipped free and she pulled the satin away. The lid was lifted, and she hesitated, her gaze lingering on the designer logo stamped on the sticker holding the tissue paper closed.
It was unclear if her question was for me or rhetorical. “What is this?”
The tissue rustled as she opened and pushed it aside, and then the lid she’d been holding on to crinkled under the sudden pressure of her hand. She didn’t seem aware. Her free hand leaned down to touch the fabric of the midnight blue dress as if she weren’t sure it was real.
Once confirmed, she stroked her fingers over it lovingly and gave the smile I hadn’t realized I’d missed seeing until this moment.
“I took the liberty of purchasing you a new dress, as you seem to have run out of options in your wardrobe.”
Her focus drifted my direction, like she’d just remembered I was still in the room. She peered at me with confusion and perhaps a grain of distrust. “You bought this?”
“I approved the purchase, yes.” It hadn’t been difficult to track down a stylist yesterday, explain what I needed, and have it delivered by six a.m. the following morning. Money solved all problems.
She plucked at the price tag still attached and gave an amused look. “This dress is twelve grand.”
“I’m aware of how much it costs.” This was a nonissue as far as I was concerned. I would pay an additional twelve thousand dollars to see her in it. “You will wear this dress today,” I said. “For me.”
Her breath caught, and color warmed across her cheekbones.
When she didn’t move, I added, “Now, Sophia. You may use my private washroom to change.”
It was powerfully satisfying when she scooped up the box and carried it into the attached restroom without a word of disagreement, and I may have detected a spring in her step as she went.
There were marketing proposals to look over, but I found it difficult to focus as I sat at my desk and listened to the rustling coming from behind the washroom door. It was inevitable that I pictured her standing beside the sink in only her bra and panties as she stepped into the dress and pulled it on. The fabric would glide over her curves as I wished my hands could.
I scowled at my thoughts.
When the door opened, she turned off the light, stepped back into my office, and my heart forgot how to complete its one and only task.
The blue dress was sleeveless but professional, its design understated. It was long, stopping several inches below her knees, and the length misled my eye into believing her legs were even longer. Like the sweater dress she’d worn the day she approached me, this one clung to her curves.
Her waist looked impossibly narrow and as if it were begging me to put my hands on it.
“What do you think?” she asked innocently and turned in a circle, and I leashed the groan that threatened to reveal my thoughts. It wasn’t just how good her feminine figure looked in the dress; it was all that went with it. I’d chosen the garment. Purchased it. Demanded she wear it.
Her brilliant smile announced she was happy to, and heat slicked down my spine, spreading out until it enveloped the rest of me. My voice was tight, choked with desire and the need to disguise it. “It looks fine.”
I’d overcompensated, and she didn’t believe a word of it. Sophia strutted toward me, gathering her hair in her hand, and when she reached me, she turned her back, presenting the tag still dangling from a ribbon pinned to the neckline.
In chess, I always plotted two moves ahead, but Sophia Alby made that impossible. She blinded me and it was difficult to trust my own instincts. I should have anticipated this, and perhaps I had on some level, but I was not prepared for how eager my fingers were to skate across the skin at the nape of her neck and undo the clasp of the pin.