Chapter 17 Sep 17, 2025 The morning alarm screamed at six-thirty, but I silenced it without moving. Every muscle ached with specific memory-not from swimming laps, but from what Aiden had done to me against cold tile, the way he'd held me when my legs gave out, how his hands had mapped territory that still throbbed with phantom touch. I skipped the pool entirely because of it. Breakfast happened in a daze of satisfaction, coffee tasting richer, morning light catching dust motes that danced like celebration. Then Alex called twice. I let it ring, shame burning through the afterglow as his name flashed across the screen. He'd strayed once-a mistake he'd apologized for until his voice went raw. I'd now betrayed him twice with calculated precision, and the guilt sat heavy in my chest. God, I loved him still, loved his earnest attempts at redemption, and here I was, becoming the very thing that would shatter him. From that day forward, I tried to restore distance, to rebuild professional boundaries-and failed spectacularly. Every attempt to ignore Aiden's messages lasted minutes at most before desire overruled guilt. I couldn't stop myself from responding, couldn't sever the electric connection that pulled me toward him despite knowing it would destroy everything with Alex. Me: Working on that business risks analysis. Finding it hard to concentrate. The photo attached showed steam-fogged glass, my silhouette visible through condensation, one palm pressed flat against the mirror while water traced paths down bare skin. Aiden: Your research methodology needs work. Too many variables left exposed. His response came with an image-white dress shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, tie hanging loose like surrender, the shadow of his jaw sharp enough to cut. The game escalated with each exchange. I sent him a shot of my back arched on Egyptian cotton, black lace riding high while my thumbs hooked the edges, pulling them lower by degrees. He countered with damp hair and a towel slung dangerously low, lamplight painting his abdomen in gold and shadow, the V of his hips disappearing into terry cloth. Me: This is highly inappropriate, Professor. Aiden: Now she develops standards. Interesting timing. A photo of his sportsman's legs propped on a bench arrived next, an open book strategically placed, title visible-'Predatory Practices in Modern Markets.' Me: Subtle as always. Aiden: I prefer direct communication. Speaking of which-your last submission lacked proper citation. The photo I sent in response made him type and delete three times before settling on: Office hours have been permanently canceled. Too dangerous. Between images came messages sharp as cut glass-observations about discipline, control, the proper way to handle hostile takeovers both corporate and personal. The thread became our private seminar, conducted entirely in suggestion and heat, a masterclass no university would sanction. The charge infected everything. Thursday afternoon, I dragged Alex down Madison Avenue with sudden purpose. "I need lingerie," I announced, pulling him toward La Perla's black awning. "And I need a man's opinion." "Ruby, I don't think-" "You're my fiancé. If you can't help me choose underwear, what's the point?" The challenge in my voice made him stop protesting, though his face flushed as we entered the boutique's perfumed interior. The consultant, a woman with architectural cheekbones and predatory efficiency, assessed us instantly. "Shopping for a special occasion?" "Every occasion should be special," I said, already moving toward the silk and scandal. "Wouldn't you agree, Alex?" The fitting room became my stage. I emerged first in black-a balconette bra that transformed my chest into geometry, paired with high-cut briefs that made my legs seem endless. Alex sat frozen on the velvet settee, his water glass forgotten. "Tell me what you'd do," I commanded, turning slowly so he could appreciate every angle. "If we were alone and I was wearing this, what would happen?" "Ruby, the consultant is-" "Getting paid not to judge. Answer the question." His voice cracked as he tried to form words about removing it carefully, about taking his time, but the practiced phrases sounded hollow against the electricity in the room. The blush pink slip came next, eyelash lace blurring my edges into suggestion. The consultant circled with measuring tape and clips, adjusting straps with professional detachment while Alex shifted uncomfortably, desire and embarrassment warring on his face. "This one?" I asked, running my hands down the silk. "What would you want?" "You look beautiful," he managed, the default response of a man out of his depth. "That's not what I asked." I stepped closer to where he sat, the silk whispering with movement. "Be specific. Use your words." He stumbled through something about the color complementing my skin, about the way it moved, but his vocabulary for desire proved limited, clinical where it should burn. The scarlet set transformed me into something dangerous-straps creating a web across my ribs, the structure more architecture than underwear. Even the consultant paused to appreciate the effect. "God, Ruby," Alex breathed, and for once, the reaction felt genuine. "You look-" "Tell me." I turned my back to him, looking over my shoulder. "Tell me exactly what you see." But he couldn't. The words tangled in his throat, trapped between propriety and desire, never quite reaching truth. The final piece-emerald satin with the suggestion of garters-rendered him completely speechless. I didn't need his words anymore; his silence said everything. He wanted me desperately but didn't know how to articulate that want, couldn't translate desire into language that matched what blazed in his eyes. "Don't pass out on me, Alex. Breathe," I purr, loving how I've stolen his words.