I shut the door, lock it, and glance at my left. Her door is closed. Has she left already?

On impulse, I knock on it.

“Hold on. I’m almost ready,” she calls. “I thought we were meeting at the office.”

Who is we?

I lean next to the doorframe and wait for her to open. We’re heading to the same place. I might as well walk with her. She’s walking, right?

When the door swings open, my mouth opens wide and my dick throbs. She’s breathtakingly beautiful.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says. “Can I help you with something?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to answer, ‘How about we do a little sixty-nine to help each other?’

Instead, I say, “I was heading to the office and wanted to see if you’d like to walk with me.”

She closes her door, narrows her gaze, and studies me from head to toe. “What’s your endgame, Hannibal?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, yet, Clarice,” I answer, following her toward the elevator and admiring her behind. “Nice skirt.”

“Stop staring at my ass,” she orders.

“If I recall, it’s a very fine one.”

She huffs, I grin, and we stay silent as we ride the elevator with other tenants. Once we start walking toward the office, I say, “Why skirts?”

“What?”

“You wore one yesterday, same today.”

“This is a dress,” she corrects me.

“You changed your style,” I say.

“First of all, I can dress how ever the hell I want. Second, why are you assessing my attire?”

“Hey, I love the skirts. It gives me better access.”

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and points at me. “You’re not allowed to bring up that time.”

“How about the time by the pool?”

“You’re too chatty today, Miller. Are you not getting anything from your current woman that you have to fixate on my attire?”

She continues walking without giving me a second glance.

“I’m not complaining about how you look, but you can’t forbid me to stop thinking when I see you dressed in a skirt that’s pretty easy to pull up. My imagination goes wild. I’m thinking: Is she wearing lacy panties or going commando? Last night, you were going commando.”

“How do you know?” she asks, confirming my suspicions.

“You hate panty lines and thongs,” I answer.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Archer.” She uses a sultry tone when she says my last name. Fuck, she’s killing me. “You still have a good memory. It works as well as it used to.”

“Try me,” I offer and glance at her. “Lacy panties, they match your bra, don’t they?”

“What if they’re granny panties and a sports bra?” she asks it loud and those eyes glint with humor. “Would that be a hit to your libido?”

“Still sexy,” I respond. “Anything you wear does it for me.”