The Curve Beneath the Collar
I'd seen fantasies before. Pixel-perfect ones on screens. I'd scrolled past them. Lusted quietly. Moved on.
But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the moment my boss walked into the office dressed like that.
At precisely 8:03 AM, Evelyn Blackthorne—the woman half the office swore was carved from stone and the other half dreamed of being stepped on by—entered wearing a tight, thigh-slit, pearl-white qipao with sheer sleeves, silver dragons curling across her breasts, and black thigh-high boots that made every step she took sound like a threat and a promise.
Her long black hair, normally pinned in a no-nonsense bun, now cascaded down her back in twin tails, tipped in silver, with the faintest shimmer of glitter catching the lights.
A silver choker with a dangling obsidian gem hugged her throat — sharp, elegant, and commanding.
Dead silence hit the office like a system crash. Coffee cups paused mid-sip. Keyboards stilled. Even the manager, old Terry from accounting, blinked twice and muttered, "I need a raise."
I stared. Couldn't not stare.
Evelyn's eyes swept the room. Sharp. Cold. She didn't explain herself. Didn't need to. She walked directly toward me, hips rolling in that damn dress, her heels punctuating the silence like drumbeats.
I swallowed hard.
"Noah," she said, voice silk-wrapped steel. "Follow me."
---
I worked directly under Evelyn. Twenty-four, marketing assistant, fantasy gamer, broke cosplayer, and possibly the only person in the building who knew how many layers were under a corset because I'd worn one myself for fun last Halloween.
She didn't make small talk as we reached her office.
Her suite was sleek—dark wood, cream walls, a massive floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the skyline. Today, the curtains were drawn. The light was soft. Intimate.
I noticed champagne in a bucket of ice on the side table. Two glasses beside it. A stack of documents on her desk.
She turned. Crossed her arms. "Close the door."
I obeyed.
"Good. Now," she continued, slowly removing the ribbon that cinched her waist, "we have a problem."
She didn't remove the dress—but that little adjustment made the fabric cling tighter to her hips. I tried not to stare. Failed.
"Sable Technologies," she said, pulling a file from her desk, "is our biggest lead this quarter. Their marketing director is an anime-obsessed twenty-two-year-old heiress. Daddy's money. But smart."
I blinked, forcing myself to focus. "And?"
"They're hosting a themed gala. This weekend. Exclusive invitation. Cosplay required. Their team wants to 'feel the creativity of our marketing partners.'" She made air quotes. Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"You're kidding."
She didn't smile. "Ten million dollars is on the line."
I leaned over to look at the file. It was thick—photos of costumes, lists of fandoms, character pairings. At the end: "Partner Cosplay Event: All pairs will perform or present in-character."
"You want me to go?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"You cosplay," she said simply. "I've seen the photos."
My stomach flipped. "Those were private—"
"You posted them on a subreddit with your full name in the metadata."
"…Oh."
She stepped closer, voice lowering. "You're good at it. You play roles. You know how to carry a scene. And more importantly, you're not a dumbass."
"High praise," I muttered.
She ignored me. "I chose this dress for a reason. I'll be going as the Demon Empress Ayaria. And you?"
She tossed a photo onto the desk.
It was a character I recognized immediately. A bare-chested rogue. Leather straps across toned abs. Daggers. Shadow-magic tattoos spiraling up the arms.
"You want me to wear that?!" I blurted.
She arched a brow. "Problem?"
"I don't even have abs."
"You'll fake it. Pad it. Glue it. I'll arrange a private fitting. Hair, makeup, the works."
I stared at her. "Why me?"
"Because," she said, stepping close enough that I caught her perfume—vanilla and danger, "you're the only one I trust to do it right."
Her finger traced the outline of the rogue's weapon in the photo.
"And," she added, "if you pull this off—I'll owe you. Something real."
I swallowed. Hard. "Define 'something real.'"
Her smile was dangerous. "Use your imagination."
---
Saturday Night. Gala Night.
The cosplay gala was held in a private ballroom overlooking the harbor. Neon lights painted the water in rainbow streaks. Fireworks cracked overhead.
I felt like I was walking through a fever dream.
There were hundreds of people in costume. Some looked ridiculous—grown men in cat ears, women in glowing mecha armor, one guy in a full latex dragon suit who looked like he couldn't breathe.
But Evelyn? She owned the room.
Every eye turned when she walked in. Horned headdress. Black lace gloves. A flowing cape that shimmered like a starfield. The slit in her dress revealed smooth, stockinged thigh with every step, and the little red gem dangling between her breasts somehow made her cleavage look like a weapon.
I, meanwhile, was shirtless. Leathered. Half-oiled. And constantly adjusting the strap across my crotch that felt one inch from a wardrobe malfunction.
"You look perfect," Evelyn whispered, looping her arm through mine. "Try not to pop out."
"Not helping," I muttered.
"Smile," she purred. "Tonight, we're lovers."
---
The event was surprisingly intense.
Every pair had to perform a scene, pose for pictures, and engage with the crowd. Some did dances. Others acted out fantasy fights. One couple practically had simulated sex on stage and got a standing ovation.
We made our appearance just before the awards were announced.
Evelyn played her role perfectly—commanding, cruel, seductive. She whipped her cape, gave me a mock order to "kneel before your Empress." I did. The crowd loved it. Someone shouted, "Kiss her boot!"
She placed it on my thigh instead.
Laughter. Applause. Flashbulbs.
And then, as the emcee handed us our finalist ribbon, Evelyn leaned in and kissed me—hot, hard, and unapologetic.
I didn't break character.
I kissed her back.
---
Midnight. Balcony.
We stood alone now, sipping champagne. My heart still pounded.
"You're a good actor," she said.
I looked at her. The horns were off. The gloves too. She looked softer, but her eyes were sharp.
"So are you."
She smirked. "Did you enjoy it?"
"The gala?"
She stepped closer. "The kiss."
I didn't answer. Just looked at her.
She moved in. Slowly. Her hand brushed my chest—bare still, warm from the night air. Her fingers slid up my neck, into my hair.
"I meant what I said," she murmured. "If you pulled this off, I'd owe you."
"What exactly do you owe me?" I whispered.
She leaned close, her breath on my lips. "Whatever you want."
And then she kissed me again.
Slower. Deeper.
Her body pressed into mine. Her thigh slid between my legs. My hands found her waist, then lower. I felt her breath hitch.
"Noah…" she whispered. "I haven't done this in a long time. Not with anyone I work with."
"Neither have I."
She smiled against my lips. "So let's break every rule tonight."
---
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
The leather couch in her suite became our battlefield.
Her dress peeled off like silk petals. My straps came undone. Skin met skin. Her nails left marks on my back. My mouth left trails down her neck, her collarbone, her—
"I always wondered," she breathed, "if you'd be this bold."
"You're not the only one who can play a role," I murmured, nipping her ear.
And then there were no more words.
Just heat. Motion. Release.
And the slow, satisfied sigh of a woman who finally let herself fall.
To be continued..