The shoes clicked against the hardwood floor as she crossed the room, red and sharp, the kind that said she meant business. He’d watched her kick off sneakers, slip out of sandals, but these—these stayed, the straps digging into her ankles like a second skin, even as she settled onto the edge of the bed. “Comfortable?” he asked, and she lifted an eyebrow, that same arch that meant don’t be stupid.
“Perfectly,” she said, and there was that attitude—cool, confident, like she hadn’t a care in the world, even with her dress hitched up just enough to show the tops of her stockings. He knew that tone. It was the one she used in meetings when someone questioned her, the one that shut down arguments before they started. Here, in this space, it didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, mixing with the scent of her perfume to create something heady, unapologetic.
He reached for her, and she let him, but her foot stayed planted, the heel pressing lightly into the floor, a silent reminder that she wasn’t fully letting her guard down. This was part of it—the heels, the attitude, the way she held his gaze like she was daring him to keep up. She didn’t need to be soft to be desirable. In fact, that edge, that refusal to shrink or sweeten herself, was what drew him in.
Later, when her laughter finally softened, when she leaned into his touch, the heels still stayed. And so did that spark—the one that said she was here, but she was still her, unyielding and unapologetic. Some things didn’t need to come off to let someone in. Sometimes, the attitude was part of the package—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.