Mary Louise Emerson

Thursday. Alaura’s already standing in her kitchen as the morning fully settles in, gaze fixed on the box placed perfectly in the center of the living room table.

Wrapped in rich, midnight-purple paper, the edges sharp and precise. A single gold bow rests on top—flawless, carefully tied, immaculate in a way that leaves no doubt who it’s from.

Lifting the mug to her lips, she takes a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving his gift. For the past several nights, their game has been played with glances, invitations, and emotions passed silently across the distance. Xander existing quietly in the background, leaving little trace of himself.

A small breathy huff slips from her as she lowers the mug and crosses the apartment, stopping in front of the coffee table, the box commanding her attention, insistent and impossible to ignore. Her fingers hover over the bow, tracing the satin ribbon, feeling the smoothness, the weight of the paper beneath them.

But she doesn’t open it.

Instead, she pulls her hand away and turns, carrying herself to her desk. Burying herself in back-to-back meetings, tweaking campaign strategies, answering emails with a mechanical focus that has nothing to do with actual productivity, trying to tune out the box.

This isn’t just a gift. It’s a message.

And before she answers it, she needs to decide exactly how she’s going to respond.

By the time lunch rolled around, Alaura had thought about the box more than she cared to admit. It kept calling to her from across the room, sitting there, taunting her. The harder she tried drowning it out, the louder it became.

She couldn’t disregard it anymore, couldn’t take it staring at her. She hated how one simple item had caused her to overthink every detail. How a man she barely knows has found a way to take up space in her mind so effortlessly.

With a sigh that is part reluctant, part surrender, she positions herself onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her, pulling the box into her lap. It’s heavier than she expected.

She doesn’t rip into it, doesn’t tear the paper like some careless, eager thing. Pulling a slender blade from the drawer of the table, she begins cutting through the tape with delicate precision. The paper peels away without a wrinkle, every fold flattened as if she was preserving a relic.

Finally, she lifts the lid. The moment her eyes behold what lies within, her lips part slightly, a breath catching halfway between amusement and disbelief. Brows knitting together with startled curiosity, her mind is still catching up to the sight before her.

Inside, resting on a bed of soft black tissue paper are three things.

A book—by the same author she’d been reading the night she first dared him to move closer. Bearing no wear along its spine, the novel is a perfect continuation of the series she’s halfway through. How he found such a rare first edition, she couldn’t guess.

A bottle of Malbec—her favorite, a vintage she hasn’t indulged in for weeks. The label pristine, the red wine almost black in against the glass.

And…

A black see-through lace nightgown, dainty and bold at the same time. The stitching so fine it looks like smoke spun into fabric, something designed to be seen… not worn in private.

Alaura scoffs with a half-cocked smile at the realization this isn’t a gift or a message, but instructions, wrapped in lace and wine, telling her exactly how he wants to see her. Letting her know he’s been paying attention.

Xander’s no longer reacting to her move, making it clear he’s now orchestrating one of his own.

She holds the nightgown up to her, the thin straps hanging loosely from her fingers, and just for a moment, she wonders what would happen if she followed his suggestion. If she gave him the show he clearly wants.

Leaning back against the couch, Alaura chews on her lip in thought as she studies the gifts.

This move is check. But not quite checkmate. And she has no intention of being the first to fold.

Intent on leaving no evidence behind, she places the contents back how she found them, arranging the fine lace over the black tissue paper so that it remains uncreased.

Then the wine. The deep garnet liquid gleaming faintly in the light. She turns the bottle slowly, thinking how well he chose—not just any Malbec, but her Malbec. The vintage she always reaches for on the rare nights she allows herself the luxury of being just a woman unwinding after a long day.

Followed by the book. The weight of it familiar and reassuring, a symbol of the world she retreats to when the real one becomes too noisy. She places it beside the gown, her fingers lingering on the cover before letting go.

With the same meticulous care she unwrapped it with, she presses each fold back into place, ensuring they sit perfectly against the edges of the box, tying the bow flawlessly.

Then, without ceremony, she sets the gift back on the coffee table, exactly where he left it. As if it was never opened, never touched, its contents still unknown. She sits back, crossing one leg over the other, regarding the package for a moment longer before returning to her desk.

He knows far too much for someone who is supposed to be keeping his distance.

Xander arrives earlier than usual.

It’s not just his presence she feels—but his anticipation. Curious if she opened his gift.

Alaura sits at her desk, fingers poised lightly over her keyboard, eyes scanning the screen without really seeing the words. Resisting the urge to glance toward the window, to seek him out.

Just as quickly as he arrived, she feels his mood change. The moment he realizes the wrapped package is still sitting where he left it, intact and unopened.

It rolls off him like steam, a volatile mix of impatience, annoyance, and taut desire. As if he expected her to tear into the wrapping, take the bait, play into the script he laid out so perfectly.

She laughs to herself, not caring that he can feel her satisfaction at his reaction.

Alaura makes herself a quick dinner after closing her laptop for the day, though her appetite is more for distraction than substance. Still, she doesn’t acknowledge him.

Once finished, she turns her attention to the object that has occupied far too much of her day and walks to the coffee table. With a soft inhale, she carries it into the bathroom, the brass handle clicking softly as the door swings shut.

Refusing to rush, she removes the paper and begins opening the box. The delicate black lace is cool against her body as she slips the nightgown over her head, settling against her hips in a way that makes it clear why he chose it. The neckline dips low, teasing the curve of her breasts, leaving just enough to the imagination—but barely. And the slit up her thigh is pure sin.

A brow arches as she catches her reflection in the mirror, hand sliding down the almost translucent fabric. He has chosen well. And she lets him know.

His only response is a long, low grunt that reverberates through her mind and down her spine.

Her finger trails over the bindings of the book, acknowledging the thoughtfulness behind it as she pulls it from the box and tucks it under her arm. Then, the bottle of Malbec.

When she emerges back into view, the air is thick with his excitement.

The silk hem brushes against her thigh with each step as she moves to the kitchen, teasing flashes of her tan skin beneath. With a soft pop filling the silence like a subtle punctuation, she uncorks the Malbec and pours herself a glass, the deep red pooling like liquid dusk in the crystal wine glass.

Taking her time, she raises the glass to her lips, never letting her eyes gravitate toward the window even though she feels every place his eyes roam over.

Alaura gives him just a few moments to enjoy his gifts. Long enough to drink her in. To let him imagine how she feels under the lace he’s chosen.

Then, with the slightest tilt of her head, she pushes a thought across that invisible thread.

Enjoy them while you can.

But her move isn’t finished. She strolls into the living room, setting both the book and wine on the coffee table. Then turns toward the windows, the city lights glittering in the glass, never breaking her stare with the darkness where Xander sits.

One inch at a time, she closes the curtains, until the last bit of glass disappears, until the final fold of velvet falls into place. Leaving him with nothing but the memory of what he’s seen and the vexing of what he can’t.

A wicked smile curves her lips.

Checkmate.

Alaura doesn’t stop there though. With languid ease, she sinks deep into the couch, the plush cushions molding around her as she stretches out in indulgence. Tracing idle patterns with her nail down the thin garment, the material hardly a barrier against her skin.

She slides her hands beneath the sheer threads.

Into her underwear.

Into herself.

With a torturous drag over the slick, fevered heat pooling between her thighs, she feels him. Feels the way his emotions react instantly. The way the tether of restraint on the other side of the glass tightens—so tight she swears she can hear it, vibrating like a plucked string.

For a single, shattering moment—his control unravels.

Alaura lets her head fall back against the couch, lashes fluttering as her breath slips past her lips. She draws out her pleasure, knowing full well he can feel everything. Knows exactly what she’s doing to herself, in the outfit he picked out, only a few feet away.

Nothing but a thin barrier of glass and steel keeping him from her, from the way she arches into her own touch, from the thrill pulsing at her fingertips

Something violent and raw sweeps past her senses.

Not hers—his.

A cutting need lashes through her, so unbearable, so unrelenting, like a beast snarling against its chains.

She smirks to herself.

Let him feel it.

Let him fight it.

If Xander thought even for a second, he’s in control of this game—

He’s dead wrong.

When Alaura finishes, their satisfaction lingering, she feels something change. It’s subtle at first, a trembling stillness before a dam shatters.

His presence, thick and overwhelming, wavers.

Then instantly vanishes.

She exhales, muscles still trembling from the ache she soothed between her legs as she stretches out, feeling the emptiness settle inside of her where his presence had been.

He didn’t stay to suffer, didn’t even hesitate.

Not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice. She could feel him breaking.

Alaura’s smirk deepens as she rises from the couch and heads to the bedroom. She doesn’t open the door to the balcony, doesn’t glance toward the window. Doesn’t even wait to see if he comes back.

Because she knows he won’t.

She won, but Xander’s absence wasn’t the victory she hoped for.