Anya's thumb hovered over the send button for exactly two seconds before she pressed it—'Is it ok if I use the card? :)'—and she was still tucking her phone into her tiny purse when it buzzed against her hip. She fished it back out, grinning at the screen. 'Buy whatever you want.'
She bounced on her heels right there on the sidewalk, the five shopping bags swinging from her arm. Whatever she wanted. That was so sweet. That was so ridiculous. He barely knew her and he was already trusting her with his credit card like it was nothing. Like she wasn't going to buy him the goofiest thank-you gift she could find.
The first store she hit was the lingerie place on the corner, the one with the pink sign and the mannequins in the window wearing things that made her laugh out loud. She pushed through the door, bells jingling, and the clerk looked up—a woman in her forties with glasses and a tight smile that froze the second Anya pulled the black card from her purse.
"I'm just looking," Anya said, already drifting toward the racks of G-strings, her fingers trailing over lace and satin and mesh. "But I'll probably find something. I always find something."
The clerk nodded, her hands pressed flat against the counter, and Anya didn't notice that she didn't move. Didn't notice that the woman's eyes kept flicking to the card, then to the door, then back to the card. Anya was too busy holding up a scrap of red lace, tilting her head, deciding.
She picked out seven G-strings—red, black, white, pink, one with little bows on the sides, one that was basically just a string with a jewel on it, and the last one caught her eye because it had tiny cherries printed on the fabric. She laughed as she added it to the pile. Cherries. Perfect.
At the counter, she slid the black card across the polished wood. "Just these."
The clerk's hands shook as she swiped it. The terminal chimed softly, and the woman's breath came out in a rush that Anya didn't understand. "Approved," the clerk said, and her voice was strange, too quiet, like she was talking to herself.
"Thanks!" Anya scooped up the bag, did a little spin, and was already planning her next stop as the bells jingled behind her.
The jeans store was three blocks down, and she walked with a bounce in her step, her dress swishing around her thighs. She caught her reflection in a window and adjusted the neckline—not that there was much to adjust. The thin floral fabric did nothing to hide her nipples, and she liked it that way. Why would she cover up something that wasn't wrong? Her body was hers. She loved it. She wanted it to be seen.
Inside the store, she made a beeline for the section with the ripped jeans. She pulled a pair off the rack—low waist, practically falling off the hips, with rips across the ass that showed more than they covered—and held them up, laughing. "These are ridiculous," she said to no one in particular. "I need them."
She grabbed three more pairs in different washes, plus a cropped denim jacket that would look cute with nothing under it, and headed for the fitting room. The sales clerk—a young guy with acne and nervous eyes—took the card without meeting her gaze, and when the transaction went through, he handed it back like it was burning his fingers.
"Have a good day," he said, and his voice cracked.
Anya beamed at him. "You too!"
She did a little spin by the exit, bags rustling, and as she pushed through the door, she almost collided with a man in a dark coat. He was broad-shouldered, expressionless, and he stepped aside without a word, his eyes fixed somewhere past her left shoulder.
"Sorry!" she said, but he was already moving past her, heading toward the belts near the exit. Another man in a similar coat stood near the sock display, studying a pair of black dress socks like they held the secrets of the universe.
Anya shrugged and kept walking. Some people were weird about shopping. She got it.
Three hours later, her arms burned and her feet ached and she had bags from six different stores piled around her on the floor of Dante's penthouse living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city glittering below, and she'd kicked off her sandals somewhere near the door, her bare feet pressing into the cool marble as she knelt among the tissue paper and scattered receipts.
"I got so much stuff," she said, pulling a G-string from one of the bags. She held it up to the light from the windows, the fabric thin and flimsy, the little red cherries printed across the front. "Look! It has little cherries on it!"
He was watching her from the leather sofa.
She'd noticed him there when she walked in, one ankle crossed over his knee, his hands resting still on the armrest. He hadn't moved since she started unpacking. His dark eyes tracked every shift of her dress as she twirled, every bounce of her hair as she bent over a bag, every flash of thigh when she knelt.
"Cherries," he said, and his voice was low, unhurried, like he was tasting the word.
"Yeah! Aren't they cute?" She held it higher, turning it so he could see the tiny green stems. "I almost got the one with the little bows, but the cherries made me laugh. I don't know why. They're just so—" She made a vague gesture with her free hand. "—cherry."
His mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something softer. "You bought a lot of things."
"I know. I went a little crazy. But you said I could buy whatever I wanted, so—" She dropped the G-string back into the bag and pulled out a pair of ripped jeans, holding them up against herself. "These are the best ones. Look at the rips. I can basically wear them as shorts. Or as a suggestion of shorts. Or as a cry for help."
She laughed, and the sound filled the room, bright and unguarded, and Dante's hands stayed still on the armrest.
"You bought jeans," he said.
"And dresses. And shoes. And this really soft sweater that's basically a blanket with sleeves. And—" She dug into another bag, emerging with a small box. "—I got you something."
His eyebrows lifted. A fraction of an inch. "You got me something."
"It's not much. I just—you gave me your card, and that's really nice, and I wanted to say thank you. So." She held out the box, wrapped in pink paper with a white bow that she'd asked the store clerk to tie three times until it looked perfect. "It's dumb. But it's cute."
He didn't move for a long moment. His eyes were on the box, then on her face, then back to the box. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
"Anya."
"Just open it."
He reached out slowly, his large fingers closing around the box, and she watched as he unwrapped it with careful, deliberate movements—not tearing the paper, but sliding his thumb along the folds, unfolding it like he had all the time in the world. Inside was a small ceramic elephant, painted bright blue with gold earrings and a tiny crown on its head.
"It's an elephant," she said, because he was just staring at it. "I saw it in a shop window and it made me think of you. I don't know why. Maybe because elephants are supposed to be really loyal. And they protect their herds. And they never forget." She shrugged, her cheeks warming. "I thought it was cute."
He turned the elephant over in his hands, his thumb brushing across the little crown. When he looked up at her, his eyes were different. Softer. Like something had cracked open behind them.
"It's perfect," he said.
She beamed. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He set the elephant on the side table next to the sofa, positioning it so it faced the room. "I'll keep it here."
She watched him do it, watched the care in his hands, and something warm bloomed in her chest. He was so serious about everything. So still. But he'd placed that tiny blue elephant like it was made of gold, and she felt seen in a way she couldn't name.
"You really like it?"
"I really like it."
She grinned, then turned back to her bags, pulling out the cherry G-string again and holding it up. "Okay, but this one's still my favorite. I'm gonna wear it tomorrow. Under my shortest dress. Just so I know it's there."
She said it without thinking, without filtering, because that was how she talked to him—she said whatever came into her head, and he listened like every word mattered.
His eyes tracked the scrap of fabric in her hands, the cherries printed across the front, the thin string that would sit high on her hips. She watched his jaw tighten, just slightly, and she tilted her head.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing the face."
"What face?"
"The face where you're thinking something but you're not saying it." She tossed the G-string back into the bag and stood up, brushing off her knees. "You do it a lot. I'm starting to learn your tells."
Something flickered in his eyes. "My tells."
"Yeah. Like when you're about to say something serious, you press your lips together. And when you're annoyed, your thumb does this little tap thing against your fingers." She demonstrated, tapping her thumb against her index and middle finger. "And right now, you're doing the face where you're thinking something you don't want to say."
He was still for a beat. Two. Then his mouth curved into that almost-smile again. "You pay attention."
"I pay attention to you." She said it brightly, like it was nothing, and she didn't see the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, steadying breath. "You're my friend. I want to know how you work."
Friend.
The word hung in the air between them, and she didn't notice the way his hands tightened on the armrest, didn't see the hunger that passed through his eyes like a shadow before it was gone.
"I'm going to try on the jeans," she said, already grabbing the bag. "I need to know if they make my ass look as good as I think they do."
She was halfway to the hallway when his voice stopped her.
"Anya."
She turned. "Yeah?"
He was still on the sofa, still still, his dark eyes fixed on her. "You can use the card anytime. For anything."
She tilted her head, a grin spreading across her face. "Anything?"
"Anything."
"Even if I want to buy a thousand more cherry G-strings?"
"Especially then."
She laughed, bright and loud, and disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, her voice trailing behind her. "You're the best, Dante. I'm gonna get you a matching elephant tomorrow. A whole herd. You'll see."
The bathroom door clicked shut, and Dante Castellano sat alone in his penthouse, surrounded by tissue paper and scattered receipts, the tiny blue elephant watching him from the side table.
He reached out and picked it up again, running his thumb over the painted crown.
His phone buzzed. A text from the lead man outside the lingerie store: 'She's clean. No tails. Nobody looked at her twice.'
He typed back: 'Keep it that way.'
From down the hall, he heard her voice, muffled through the door, humming a song he didn't recognize. She was in his home, in his space, surrounded by things she'd bought with his card, wearing nothing but the thin floral dress and a G-string he hadn't seen yet but already knew he'd dream about.
He set the elephant back down and leaned into the sofa, his eyes fixed on the hallway where she'd disappeared.
He could wait.
She was worth waiting for.
She stood in the bathroom, the jeans in her hands, and stared at herself in the mirror. The dress she'd worn all day hung loose around her thighs, the floral pattern faded under the warm light. She bit her lip, then pulled the dress over her head, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric.
The thong she'd bought earlier—cherries printed across the front—was the only thing between her and the cool air of the bathroom. She ran her thumb over the thin string at her hip, grinned at herself in the mirror, and stepped into the jeans.
They were tight. Really tight. The denim hugged her hips like a second skin, the rips across the ass showing more than they covered, and the waist sat so low that the top of her thong peeked out above the waistband. She turned, twisted, looked over her shoulder at her reflection, and let out a low whistle.
"Damn," she whispered, and laughed. She looked good. She knew it. The kind of good that made her want to spin, wanted someone to see her in them.
She wanted him to see her.
The thought came easy, natural, and she didn't question it. She just reached for the door handle, pulled it open, and leaned out into the hallway. The living room was just beyond, the city lights glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she could see the edge of the leather sofa where he sat.
"Dante," she called out, her voice bright and excited. "Do you want to see?"
She heard the leather creak as he shifted, heard the low hum of his voice before the words even registered: "See what?"
"The jeans! Duh. Come look."
A pause. Then footsteps, slow and measured, crossing the hardwood floor. She stayed in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other resting on her hip, the low light from the bathroom spilling past her and pooling at her feet.
He appeared at the end of the hallway, and she watched him stop. She watched his light grey eyes travel down her body, from her face to the high waist of the jeans to the denim that wrapped her thighs to the bare inches of skin showing at her hip. She watched his jaw tighten, the same way it had when she'd held up the cherry G-string.
"Well?" She turned, slowly, giving him the full view—the rips across the back, the way the denim curved over her ass, the thin strip of her thong visible above the waistband, cherries and all. "What do you think?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. His hands were at his sides, his shoulders set, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. Then his mouth moved, one word, low and rough: "Turn."
She blinked. "What?"
"Turn around again."
She laughed, but she did it, spinning on her heel and letting him watch the denim pull tight across her curves, the rips catching the light. "You like them, don't you? I knew you would. I saw them and I was like—these are so ridiculous, I have to have them."
She was still talking, still bright and bubbly, and she didn't see the way his chest rose and fell with a deep, steadying breath. She didn't see the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, or the hunger that darkened his eyes as she chattered on about the store and the clerk and the way she'd bargained for a discount even though she was using his card.
"—and the guy at the register looked so confused when I asked if they had them in blue too, like I was speaking a different language—"
"Anya."
She stopped. "Yeah?"
He took a step closer. Then another. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the gold ring on his finger, the veins in his hands, the slight stubble along his jaw that hadn't been there this morning. Close enough that she could smell him—leather and cedar, warm and clean.
"You look good," he said, and his voice was lower than usual, rough at the edges. "You look really good."
She beamed. "Thanks! I knew you'd like them. I should buy more things you'd like. That's a thing we can do now. I'll be your personal shopper, and you can just sit here and look at me in ridiculous jeans."
He almost smiled. "Ridiculous is the word."
"Ridiculously hot," she corrected, and she said it without arrogance, just fact, as if she were stating that the sky was blue. She reached out and touched his arm, her fingers light on the fabric of his suit. "You should try on something fun too. I'll take you shopping. We'll get you a pair of neon sneakers and a leather jacket."
"I have a leather jacket."
"A cool one, then."
He looked down at her hand on his arm, and she felt him go still. She didn't pull away. She just stood there, her fingers resting on him, and she tilted her head, studying his face.
"You're doing it again," she said softly.
"Doing what?"
"The face. The one where you're thinking something you don't want to say."
He held her gaze, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes—something raw, something hungry, something that made her pulse skip even though she didn't understand why. Then it was gone, smoothed over by the mask he always wore, and he stepped back, just enough to break the contact.
"You should keep them," he said. "The jeans."
"I am keeping them. I'm wearing them right now." She laughed, and spun again, the denim pulling tight across her ass. "I might never take them off."
"That's fine." His voice was steadier now, controlled. "You can wear them every day if you want."
"You'd be okay with me living in your bathroom in ripped jeans?"
"I'd be okay with you living here period."
The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, and she didn't catch the weight behind them. She just laughed, bright and easy, and bounced on her heels. "You're so nice. You know that? Most people would be like 'get out of my apartment, you weirdo in cherry underwear.' But you're just—" She waved her hand. "You're a good friend, Dante. The best."
Friend.
The word hit him like a blade, but he didn't flinch. He just watched her as she talked, watched the way her lips moved, the way her hands gestured, the way the thin fabric of her thong appeared and disappeared as she shifted her weight. The cherry on the side of her hip was a small red dot against her skin, and he wanted to press his mouth to it, wanted to know if she tasted as sweet as she looked.
"I'm gonna take them off now," she announced, and his eyes snapped to hers. "The jeans. I want to try the other ones too. The ones with the stars on the pockets."
She was already turning, already disappearing back into the bathroom, and he was left standing in the hallway, fists still clenched, breathing steady, waiting.
The door clicked shut, but not all the way. It hung open an inch, a sliver of light, a crack of invitation.
He didn't move. He didn't look away.
She pushed the door open wider and stepped out, the cherry-printed G-string doing almost nothing to cover her. Her bare breasts caught the cool air of the penthouse, her nipples tightening instantly, and she stretched her arms above her head like a cat waking from a nap, completely at ease in her own skin.
"Okay, BFF rule number one," she announced, padding barefoot across the marble floor toward the pile of shopping bags. "No pretending I'm being weird. This is just how I am now. You signed up for it when you gave me the magic card."
Dante hadn't moved from the leather sofa. He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, his hands resting still on the armrests, his grey eyes tracking her every movement with a stillness that should have been unsettling. She didn't seem to notice. She never did.
"And what exactly did I sign up for?" His voice was low, rougher than it had been a moment ago, but she just laughed and dragged a shopping bag onto the rug in front of him.
"This." She pulled out a scrap of teal lace and held it up triumphantly. "Full comfort mode. No bra, no jeans, just me and my new underwear collection and my new best friend." She grinned at him, bright and guileless. "You're okay with that, right?"
His jaw tightened. "I'm okay with that."
"Good." She dropped the teal thong and hooked her thumbs into the sides of the cherry one, shimmying it down her hips without a hint of self-consciousness. "Because I bought, like, eight of these, and I'm gonna need a second opinion on all of them."
She stepped out of the cherries and stood completely naked in front of him for a long, suspended moment, reaching for the teal lace. Her breasts swayed with the movement, full and heavy, her nipples dark and hard in the cool air. She didn't rush. She took her time, pulling the teal thong up her thighs, over her hips, settling it into place with a little wiggle.
"This one's really soft," she said, turning to show him the back. The thin fabric disappeared between the cheeks of her ass, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. "Feel."
She grabbed his hand before he could react and pressed his palm to the fabric at her hip. His fingers were warm against her skin, his hand massive, covering the entire curve of her hip bone. He didn't move. He didn't pull away. He just sat there, his thumb resting against the bare skin just above the lace.
"See? Super soft." She let go of his hand and spun away, missing the way his fingers curled slightly, missing the way he brought his hand back to his lap slowly, deliberately. "I think this one's a winner. But let me try the pink one."
She dropped the teal thong without ceremony and reached for a pink lace number with a tiny bow at the front. Her breasts bounced freely as she bent over, and she heard him exhale—a slow, controlled breath—but she didn't look up. She was too busy examining the stitching.
"This one has ruffles," she said, straightening and holding it up. "Who knew thongs could have ruffles? It's like a party back there." She pulled it on, adjusting the bow so it sat perfectly at the center of her pelvis. "Okay, honest opinion. Cherries, teal, or pink?"
She stood in front of him, hands on her hips, head tilted, waiting for his verdict. The pink lace contrasted sharply with her skin, the bow drawing the eye directly to the space between her thighs. She looked like a gift someone had half-unwrapped.
Dante's voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Pink."
"Yeah? I was leaning toward the cherries, but the pink does make my ass look good." She twisted to look over her shoulder at her own reflection in the dark glass of the windows. "You're right. Pink is the move."
She left it on and dove back into the bag, pulling out a black thong with a chain detail that draped across the hips. "Oh, this one is dangerous. This one says 'I'm trouble' and I love it."
She swapped again, fast and casual, completely unbothered by her nudity between changes. The chain caught the light as she moved, glinting against her skin. She walked to the window, her bare feet silent on the cool floor, and looked out at the city spread beneath her.
"You know what I love about this?" she said, her back to him. "I feel like I can be myself with you. Like, fully myself. No pretending I'm someone who wears sensible pajamas or full-coverage underwear. I'm a cherry thong girl, and you just—" she turned, gesturing at him— "you accept that. You don't make me feel weird about it."
She crossed the room toward him, the chain swinging at her hips, her breasts swaying with each step. She stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her stomach, her thighs, the inside of her thigh where the chain ended.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For being my friend. For not making things weird."
He looked up at her. His grey eyes were dark, nearly black in the low light of the penthouse. The veins in his hands stood out where he gripped the armrests. His chest rose and fell with a breath that seemed to cost him something.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to." She leaned down and pressed a quick, friendly kiss to his cheek, her bare chest brushing against his shoulder. She pulled back before he could react, already spinning away toward the bags again. "Okay, black chain vs. cherry. Which one wins?"
He didn't answer immediately. She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, a grin playing at her lips.
"Dante. Earth to Dante. Which one?"
"Cherry." The word came out rough, almost unwilling.
"Cherry it is." She dropped the black thong and pulled the cherries back on, adjusting the little fruit clusters so they sat perfectly on her hip bones. "This is my official BFF uniform. You're gonna see a lot of these cherries."
"I hope so."
She didn't catch the weight in his voice. She just grinned and flopped down on the other end of the leather sofa, tucking her legs beneath her, completely naked except for the thin strip of fabric between her thighs. Her bare breasts rested against her knees, and she leaned her head back, looking utterly at home.
"This is the best," she said, her eyes drifting closed. "Best day ever. Shopping, new underwear, best friend who doesn't judge me. I might just move in."
She laughed at her own joke, bright and easy.
Dante didn't laugh. He watched her, his gaze tracing the curve of her spine, the soft swell of her hip, the way her nipples tightened every time the air shifted. He let the silence stretch, let her settle into her comfort, and then he spoke.
"You could."
Her eyes opened. She turned her head to look at him, her cheek resting against the leather cushion. "What?"
"Move in." His voice was steady now, controlled, the mask firmly back in place. "If you wanted to. There's room."
She stared at him for a long moment, and then she laughed again, soft and warm. "You're so sweet. You know that? Most guys would freak out if a girl showed up with eight thongs and tried them all on in their living room. But you're just—" She shook her head, smiling. "You're different, Dante. You're the best."
She closed her eyes again, her breathing slowing, her body relaxing into the leather.
He watched her fall into that easy, trusting stillness. Watched her chest rise and fall. Watched the cherry on her hip rise and fall with each breath.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. His men, checking in. He ignored it.
She was still here. Still naked. Still his.
He didn't move. He didn't look away.
He waited.