Page 32 of Sigma

Despite the scalding heat of the shower, despite scrubbing until my skin is pink and raw with the salt scrubs, despite a thick lather of soap rinsed away and re-lathered half a dozen times, I cannot rid my skin of the feel of his eyes.

There is fear, yes.

But what concerns me most of all is that the feeling of his eyes on my skin is not, in fact, accompanied by the expected sense of revulsion or disgust.

He cut my clothes off.

Stared at my nude body, openly, frankly, blatantly.

And, unless I miss my guess, the fact that he forgot the clothing he made such a production of cutting away means he was affected.

He’s got a hell of a poker face, though.

Clean, hair washed and conditioned, I step out of the shower, and use a towel from one of the ladder shelves to dry myself, and wrap it around my torso. There’s a hairbrush and dryer on one of the shelves as well—I take the time to brush my hair out and fully dry it.

Finally, I examine the contents of the garment bag: a scarlet dress, and matching shoes—the shoes are Louboutin, and my size. I remove the dress from the bag.

It’s…breathtaking.

I slip it on and look at myself in the full-length mirror in the closet.

Straps cross over my chest in a halter, the bust low cut…so low it barely covers my nipples. The dress hugs my waist and hips, leaves my back bare down to the very swell of my ass, clinging to my thighs and ending just above my knees.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever worn, and it fits like it was custom-made for me.

Once I slip the heels on, my legs and ass look tight and toned, and the cut of the top props my admittedly impressive boobs and puts them on display—covered, but just barely.

I look goddamned incredible.

The man’s got taste.

I mean, it’s a pretty slutty dress, but holy shit, does it flaunt what I’ve got.

I don’t really dress like this. I wear shorts, skirts, tank tops, and T-shirts. I wear bikinis to the beach, but they’re pretty conservative, as far as bikinis go.

I don’t wear heels.

I don’t wear slutty dresses.

But, I have to eat, and now that he’s cut my clothing to pieces, this is all I’ve got.

I hear the door unlock and open. I fluff my hair, tug the top of the dress a little higher to snug the girls into it more firmly, and then exit the bathroom.

He’s standing in the open doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, which he’s staring at.

I wait.

I know he’s heard my heels clicking on the wood floor.

He looks up as he slips his phone into his back pocket—when his eyes land on me, he freezes, and his breath sucks in between his teeth in a sharp hiss.

His gaze takes ownership of me, slides down my form, landing last of all on my eyes. “You are simply…magnificent.” His eyes glitter black in the lights, which are cleverly hidden in the vaulted ceiling far above.

A moment, then, his eyes on mine, then taking me in yet again, and again.

Finally, he turns and gestures at the stairwell. “Come.”

The stairs are steep and treacherous, and there is no railing. The first time I slip, I catch myself.