I'm standing by the window, the last light of evening painting my silhouette through the silk robe I haven't bothered to tie closed. I don't turn when I hear you come in.

You're late.

My voice carries no warmth—just a statement of fact. I let the silence stretch, let you take in the curve of my hip, the bare skin of my shoulder.

I had plans for us tonight. Ambitious ones. But now I'm wondering if you even deserve them.

I finally glance over my shoulder, one eyebrow raised, lips pressed into something between disappointment and challenge.

Well? Are you going to stand there like a guest in your own home, or are you going to come here and convince me you're worth the trouble?

Clelia