Empress in Lingerie (Lingerie 5)

After I had breakfast, I went in search of Vanessa.

She was exactly where I expected her to be, sitting on a chair at an easel. All the colors were in place, but her image wasn’t clear. She spent so much time detailing every little thing in the room, from the texture of the walls, to the light flooding through the windows, to the tiny details of the curtains.

She was a perfectionist.

She didn’t turn around when she heard me walk inside. Her brush was still against the canvas, perfecting the outline of her body against the bed.

I walked farther into the room, my eyes glued to her painting. But the second I took my gaze away from her artwork and looked at her, I noticed something.

Her shirt.

It was my shirt.

It was the shirt I’d been wearing when she asked me to take it off. It was the shirt that fell on the ground and lay forgotten while we screwed for the rest of the night. I left it there because I forgot about it, and when I woke up this morning I never picked it up.

And now she was wearing it.

Ten sizes too big, it reached her knees, and the sleeves almost touched her elbows. It didn’t show her curves, and it made her look even smaller in comparison. Her legs reached out underneath it, toned and beautiful.

I’d never seen a woman wear my shirt before.

And look so sexy in it.

Time seemed to stand still as I looked at her, unsure how I felt about what I was looking at. She had a bag of her own clothes, so it wasn’t like she didn’t have anything else to wear. I was always possessive of her, but seeing her in my belongings seemed to change my hold over her.

I felt like I owned her even more.

And she wanted me to own her.

I didn’t let my victims humanize themselves. I didn’t let myself get attached to them or pity them. I had to kill them, so they were nothing more than livestock. Like a cow that would be taken out to slaughter for meat.

But seeing her in that black t-shirt changed everything.

And I would never look at her the same way again.

I pulled my sweater over my head and then put on my shoes.

Vanessa was sitting on the couch with a blanket over her legs while she watched TV. When she realized I was leaving, she sat up. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m meeting the guys.”

“Tonight?” she asked in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“It’s almost eight.”

I grabbed my keys and wallet off the counter. “I know. I have a watch.”

“Isn’t that late?”

I killed people for a living. There was no such thing as late. “I’ll be back later.” I headed to the door, not in the mood to say goodbye. I was annoyed at myself right now. Seeing her wear my shirt pissed me off. I wasn’t angry at her for wearing my clothes. That would be a stupid thing to get upset about. But I hated the way it made me feel.

Vanessa followed me to the door dressed in a purple nightdress. Her hair was down, and her face had been washed. She packed her toothbrush, but I forced her to use mine anyway. “Is everything alright?”

“I have to work.”

“You’ll be back tonight?” She followed me all the way to the elevator, the small nightgown barely covering her body.

“Yes.” I hit the button, and the doors opened.

“That’s it?” she asked incredulously. “No other explanation—”

“I’m not your boyfriend.” I stared at the pissed look on her face as the doors closed. When she was finally gone from sight, I took a breath. I didn’t like the way this woman made me feel. When we were together, I forgot about all the shit in my life. When she wore my shirt, it made me feel like I was connected to her.

I hated that feeling.

So I pushed her away—hurting her on purpose.

I hit the button and rode the elevator to the bottom floor. Then I walked to the bar a few blocks away. It was a dark place with guys who looked the other way when they saw trouble. Women were on poles, their titties hanging out.

I wasn’t impressed.

Max was already there, getting a lap dance from a blonde. He grinned like an idiot, entertaining himself until I arrived.

I dropped into the chair across from him. “Get your pussy later.”

He chuckled then excused the woman. “Like the pussy you have every night?” He grabbed his beer and took a drink.

I didn’t like the way he referred to Vanessa, mentioning the heaven between her legs. That was my pussy—and no other man could talk about it. “She’s off-limits. What do you have for me?”

A folder sat on the table, but he didn’t push it toward me. He studied me with his brown eyes, his hand gripping his glass. “Off-limits, huh?”