My therapist is going to need a therapist.”
I walk to the closet.
Suits. So many suits. Organized by color with the precision of someone who takes clothing very seriously. Dark grey. Charcoal. Navy. Black. A few lighter options, stone, taupe, that he probably wears in summer.
Shirts hung perfectly, arranged by color and sleeve length. Ties on a rack, silk, patterned, solid, more ties than any one person could possibly need.
Maybe he has a tie fetish.
That’s why there were no handcuffs. He uses fancy silk ties like a goddamn gentleman dom. On the wrists, at the ankles, around my throat, as a gag.
Focus, Stevie.
My hand reaches out before I can stop it. Touches one of the ties.
Deep blue. Cool under my fingers.
Don’t.
I take it off the rack.
What are you doing?
I loop it around my neck like trying on possession, pretending I belong to someone who should absolutely never belong to anyone.
The silk is cool against my throat. Smooth. Expensive.
This tie has been against his neck. Against his skin. He’s tied it a hundred times, a thousand, his fingers working the knot while standing in front of a mirror.
And now it’s on me.
I tighten it. Imagine his hands doing this. Wrapping it around my wrists. My throat. Using it to pull me closer, tilt my head back, make me look at him while his fingers slide into my cunt.
I’m wet.
I’m standing in a mobster’s closet wearing his tie and I’m soaked.
This is the kind of thing that gets you featured on true crime podcasts.
But it smells like him. And I can’t make myself take it off.
There’s a suit jacket right in front of me. Charcoal grey. The same color he was wearing in that news photo.
My hands are already reaching for it.
No. Absolutely not. This is too far. This is way too far.
I pull it off the hanger and put it on over my t-shirt.
It’s huge. The shoulders too broad. The sleeves falling past my hands.
I wrap it around myself. Close my eyes.
The fabric is soft against my arms. Broken in. This isn’t a jacket he just bought. This is one he wears. Often.
I pull it tighter. Bury my face in the collar.
God. It smells like him everywhere. Collar, sleeves, lining. Like he’s wrapped around me. Like I’m inside his skin.
