The Prisoner of Silk: 4. Strings of Silk

The night was heavy with thunder. Rain lashed the glass walls of the penthouse, the city blurred below in a wash of silver and shadow. She stood at the window in another slip he had chosen for her—this one the palest ivory, so sheer it was almost nothing at all.

She told herself she wore it because there was nothing else. She told herself it wasn’t surrender.

But when she heard the door open, and felt the weight of his gaze sear down her back, she knew she was lying to herself.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, reverent.

“Stop calling me that,” she whispered, not turning. But she had to admit to herself that she liked his compliment. 

He came up behind her, his reflection merging with hers in the glass. He was taller, broader, consuming the space she occupied until there was nowhere else to stand but pressed against him. His hand slid over her hip, fingers grazing the silk, the other lifting to tilt her chin until her eyes met his in the window’s refle