The master bedroom closet in the Voss penthouse was larger than most studio apartments. It had been designed by a team of architects who specialized in “lifestyle spaces”—which meant illuminated shoe racks, velvet ottomans, and mirrors on every surface that turned dressing into a performance.
Mia had been living there for two months. Her father had married Linda six months ago, and Cassie—Linda’s daughter, Mia’s new stepsister—had been avoiding her since the wedding, since the moment she’d caught Mia staring at her across the reception hall and hadn’t looked away.
Today, their parents had returned from a trip to Milan. Bags were being unpacked. The penthouse smelled like jet lag and expensive perfume. And Mia had found herself in the walk-in closet, holding a pair of Linda’s black stilettos, wondering what it would feel like to be the kind of woman who wore shoes like this.
“I found these in your mother’s drawer,” Mia whispered, looking up as Cassie appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a black lace bodysuit under an open robe, her body visible in the soft light, completely unconcerned with modesty. “She’ll know we were in here.”
Cassie didn’t speak. She just took the shoes from Mia’s hand, let them drop onto the plush carpet, and stepped between Mia’s knees. Mia was sitting on the velvet ottoman, wearing one of her father’s silk shirts—stolen from the laundry, unbuttoned to her chest, completely exposed and completely terrified.
“Your father is in the bedroom,” Mia breathed. Cassie’s hand was on the shoe rack above her head, the other tilting her chin up. “He just asked if we wanted dinner. If he hears the mirror—”
Cassie kissed her. Not on the lips—on the throat, on the collarbone, on the place where the shirt gaped open. Her hands found the buttons, undid them with a speed that spoke of practice, of fantasy, of every night she’d spent in the room next door imagining exactly this.
Cassie pushed her back onto the ottoman. The mirrors showed everything—Mia’s back arching, Cassie’s mouth on her breast, the black lace bodysuit that was doing nothing to hide Cassie’s own arousal.
“Five minutes,” Mia gasped, though she didn’t know if she was asking for more time or less.
“Your father,” Cassie whispered against her stomach, her fingers sliding down, under the waistband of Mia’s leggings, finding her wet and ready and completely undone, “is unpacking. Your stepmother is in the shower. And these mirrors…” She looked up, met Mia’s eyes in the reflection. “These mirrors mean I can watch your face from every angle while I make you come.”
She used her mouth first. Then her fingers. Then the stiletto—the heel, pressed against Mia’s inner thigh, a threat and a promise that made her shake.
When Mia came, it was with her hand over her own mouth, her eyes on the infinite reflections of Cassie’s blonde head between her legs, her body shaking so hard that the shoe rack rattled.
After, Cassie dressed her in the stilettos. Fixed her hair. Kissed her cheek.
“Next time,” she whispered, “we try on my mother’s pearls. And I show you exactly what they mean by ‘choker.'”
Mia still wears the stilettos. Not outside—just in the closet. Just with Cassie. Just on the nights when the penthouse is quiet and the mirrors are waiting.
