Slade eyed the scrap of fabric in his hand like it was tactical gear that had failed inspection.

He exhaled through his nose. “That’s the point,” he said, dry but unmistakably amused. “It’s supposed to be tiny. It’s supposed to be revealing.”

He stepped closer, not crowding—just enough that his presence rewrote the room. “Lingerie isn’t about practicality,” he continued. “It’s about intent. Distraction. Confidence.” A pause. “Control.”

Slade held it out to her, expression steady. “You don’t wear it to be comfortable,” he said. “You wear it because you know exactly what it does.”

He tilted his head, eyes darkening just a fraction. “And because you want to.”

Another beat, deliberate.

“Now,” he added, voice low and certain, “put it on.”

He leaned back against the dresser, arms folding, already settled into patience. Slade never rushed outcomes he was sure of.

And this?

This was inevitable.