True Confessions: The Clothes Thing

Cordelia stood in front of the tall mirror in the Hyperion lobby, smoothing her hands down the front of the new blouse. The Vera Wang chiffon was even softer than it had looked on the hanger, the deep V neckline and open back making her feel like a million bucks. She’d paired it with the red silk skirt that hit mid-thigh, and the whole effect was… well, she looked good. Really good.

Angel sat on the red couch nearby, newspaper forgotten in his lap, blue mug halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t taken a sip in at least two minutes.

She caught his reflection in the mirror and turned, striking a pose with one hand on her hip. “Well? Still think it was worth the trip to Rodeo Drive?”

His eyes dragged up from the hem of the skirt to her face, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. Worth it.”

Cordelia grinned, doing a little spin so the skirt flared. “See? Totally forgiven. You’re off the hook, mister. No more brooding about the whole ‘giving my favorite blouse to charity’ thing.”

Angel set the mug down. The honesty pact they’d made was still fresh, and she could see the moment he decided to use it.

“I didn’t buy them just because I felt guilty.”

She stopped mid-twirl, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

He stood, moving closer until he was only a couple of feet away. His voice dropped, quiet but steady. “I had… specific ideas. Of how you’d look in them. Very specific. And slightly inappropriate.”

Cordelia blinked. Then her mouth fell open. “Angel!”

The reaction was instant and priceless—cheeks flushing bright pink, eyes going wide, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as a startled laugh escaped. She stared at him like he’d just confessed to robbing a bank.

“You perv!” she managed, but there was no real outrage in it. If anything, she sounded delighted. “You bought me a whole wardrobe because you were picturing me in it? Like… picturing me in it?”

Angel didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. “Every piece. The way the fabric would feel. How it would move when you walked. How it would look when you turned.” His gaze flicked down to the open back of the blouse, then back up. “Reality turned out better than the mental images.”

Cordelia’s mouth opened and closed twice. She took a step closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. “You are so lucky we have this honesty thing going, because otherwise I’d be calling you a liar right now. Or a total creep. Or both.”

“Both works,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

She laughed again, but it came out breathier this time. Her fingers toyed with the knot at the front of the blouse, drawing his eyes exactly where he’d admitted they’d been going in his head. “So… which one was your favorite mental image? Be honest.”

Angel’s eyes darkened. He reached out, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted, and brushed his knuckles lightly along the open edge of the blouse’s back—right where the fabric gapped over her spine. The touch was barely there, but it sent a visible shiver through her.

“This one,” he murmured. “The back. I kept thinking about sliding my hand inside. Just to see if the skin underneath was as soft as the fabric.”

Cordelia’s breath caught. Her pulse was doing that ridiculous flippy-flop thing again, loud enough she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t step back. If anything, she leaned in a fraction, the air between them crackling.

“You’re evil,” she whispered, but her voice had gone husky.

“Sometimes.”

She stared up at him, cheeks still flushed, lips parted, the new clothes suddenly feeling like they were made of pure electricity. For a long moment neither of them moved—just the two of them in the quiet lobby, the honesty hanging thick and sweet and dangerously close to something more.

The End.

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