Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I poke my head into the bullpen to check my desk before I clock out. I’ve put off dress shopping until the very last minute.
The desk sergeant gives me a nod. “Package for you, Ramos. I left it on your desk.”
I slow my steps. “Package for me? Who sent it?”
He shrugs, distracted by a ringing phone. Packages here are vetted in case some psycho sends us a bomb, so if he’s not worried about it, I won’t get any more from him.
My desk is toward the back of the bullpen, the large room where the detectives work. The cubicles have low walls that barely clear the desktop. There’s just enough space to pin a personal picture or two. My cubicle is as bare as my apartment. Beside mine, Burgess’s overflows with empty coffee cups and sloppily stored files. There’s a photo torn out of a magazine—a smiling Miss Olympus, her hands propped on bikini-clad hips. If there had been a Missus Burgess, at one point, she left him long ago.
On my desk lies a huge rectangular box with a red bow. My heart sinks; it has to be some sort of joke. The dark navy blue box is high quality, the type you might get at a high-end shop on 5th Avenue. The material has a subtle texture, and the bow is a glossy satin.
Whoever set this joke up pulled out all the stops. I glance around, but no one’s here. The detectives are either out or off-shift. I bet Burgess is hiding in the copy room, phone out and ready to catch me on candid camera.
I remain standing and pull on the bow. It falls apart beautifully with one tug. A subtle scent rises from the box, a bouquet of my favorite floral scent—jasmine. When I open the box, the scent gets stronger.
Nestled within the fine white tissue paper is a dress. Black and elegant, with a draped neckline and gold chains for straps. Modest enough to wear to a fundraiser, but breathtakingly sexy. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
This isn’t a joke. This is a gown I could wear to the gala. Who left it here?
Did the brass not trust my fashion sense enough to let me choose my own dress? Since when does the Chief of Police worry himself with details like this?
I rub the tissue paper between my thumb and forefinger. Better not look a gift dress in the mouth or whatever. It’s too perfect.
I go to the women’s locker room to clean up. There are showers, and I get myself into a passable state. I take the time to blow dry my hair but then tie it up in an elegant twist, securing it with the one nice hair clip I own. Fortunately, it’s gold and matches the hardware on the dress.
I’m glad the locker room is empty so I can have privacy. Just opening the box and lifting the outfit is intimate. There’s another scent underneath the floral one—a deep, woodsy musk that reminds me of my mystery dom’s cologne. I raise the dress and inhale, surrounding myself with the scent.
Ropes binding my wrists and forearms. A click of ice in a glass. Stripes of fire on my back, a throbbing ache between my thighs. A smooth, deep voice humming through me.
I slide on the dress slowly, savoring the exquisiteness of the silky fabric gliding across my skin. The bodice is tight but not too tight. It doesn’t show enough skin to reveal the marks on my skin, but it’ll be a soft hand against my bruises.
It’s perfect.
The water-streaked locker room mirror reflects a woman I don’t recognize. I look like a goddess. An ancient queen. The only thing I’m missing is a crown, but I don’t need it. Two lion’s head charms secure each chain to the dress fabric. The pop of gold makes me look regal. I don’t even need jewelry.
Who would give me this?
You have a secret admirer.
I finger the expensive fabric. Diego was referring to the body left on my doorstep like a gruesome calling card, but the sentiment would apply here. Who would send me such a gorgeous and expensive gift? Clothing is intimate, and this dress fits like a glove, cupping and showing off my curves.
The events from the past few days flit through my head like birds flying, scattered before coming together to form a flock. Little bird. . . rope. . . a secret admirer. It’s a puzzle, and all the pieces are here. I’m just missing what connects them all.
Someone bangs into the restroom, breaking me out of my reverie. I hustle to finish getting ready before one of the grunts ventures deep into the locker room and sees me.
Folded in the gift box is a simple rectangle of muted black silk I can drape over my bare arms as a wrap.