You enter the apartment expecting one of your usual evenings. In your mind, you can already picture Jackie sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone, announcing that she’s already ordered takeout, that she wants a movie night, that she wants kisses after a long day at work. that’s how it always goes: Jackie deciding, Jackie wanting, Jackie making sure you give in to her whims (which you always do).

What you don’t expect is candlelight flickering across the living room walls as you step inside, shadows stretching across the tapestry. On top of that, the air is heavy with the sweet vanilla scent of the candles Jackie paid a fortune for a few months back, swearing she’d save them for a ‘special occasion’.

You were right about one thing, though: Jackie is there, not merely lounging on the couch as you’d imagined, but leaning against the doorway, waiting for you.

With the keys still in your hand you freeze and gawk at the woman in front of you.

Jackie grins. “Hi, baby.”

Your throat goes dry. You don’t even know where to start looking. There’s so much of her, and not nearly enough fabric: Wine red lace hugs every curve of Jackie’s body, delicate straps framing her hips like ribbons on a fucking Christmas gift.

The stockings stop just above her knees, held in place by thin garters, and the matching bra is cut so low you can see the swell of her breasts through the very much transparent fabric.

Feigning innocence, Jackie twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “Are you gonna stand there staring all night, or are you gonna say something?”