WHEN I GET HOME from my weekend away with Pippa, my sole focus is getting inside my apartment and watching the video Rory sent with my fingers on my clit. My footsteps thump on the stairs as I hurry to the third floor, keys in hand, but when I reach the landing, a package sits on the floor, leaning against my door.
My stomach flutters and I bite down on my smile. Another? He must be as addicted to those photos as I am.
Inside my apartment, I tear the package open, excitement drumming in my veins, but when I push the plastic wrapping aside, my expression turns disgusted.
I hold it up and a laugh bursts out of me. Until now, Rory’s taste has skewed delicate, sweet, sheer, and lacy. Everything has been high quality and carefully constructed from soft material that feels incredible to wear.
This piece of shit looks like it’s going to fall apart any second.
It’s all black straps, stringy and confusing. My nose wrinkles. I’m not sure which hole is for the neck and which are for the legs.
“What the fuck?” I murmur, laying it out flat.
This thing is so ugly. It looks like a spiderweb. How am I supposed to wear it? I burst out laughing again before I take a photo.
Not sure about this one, Miller. It needs an instruction manual.
