~Hermes ~
The door opens, and I lose every coherent thought in my head.
What the f**k is she wearing?
It sticks to her like it was sewn on. The neckline's loose, draped low — too low — and the straps are so thin they look like they’d snap if someone breathed on her too hard. The hem barely makes it to mid-thigh. I can see the outline of her legs, her hips, the soft pull of fabric over her waist.
I stare, and I can’t stop.
Because it's that exact dress.
I didn’t really see it that night — not properly. I was only interested in getting her legs apart.
But now? Now I see every inch of it.
She’s not wearing her jacket. Not holding anything. Just that dress, like she stepped out of someone else’s night and into my office.
And the smell, not her usual scent. It's tequila, lime, and club
