The elevator in his building is all mirrors. I’ve hated that about it for a year. Tonight it was a gift.
I was wearing the choker, the thin black velvet one with the little silver ring at the front. He’d put it on me himself at the door, tugging it straight, saying nothing. We stepped in at eight. Doors closed. And his finger slid right through the ring and hooked, easy, like it had been designed for that.
He pulled.
I stumbled the half step toward him until my chest was pressed against his jacket, and the mirror gave me three of us, four, infinite Kits with their mouths open and their eyes wide. Brett watching me watch myself.
“Look,” he said quietly. “Look how you get.”
Seven. Six. His other hand stayed in his pocket. That was the cruelty of it. Just the one finger in the ring, tight enough to make me swallow against it, and his mouth near my ear saying good boy so softly I might have dreamed it.
Five. The light blinked. Somebody might have called the car. Nobody did.
Four, and I was hard in my jeans, and he looked down and smirked.
Three. Two. The doors opened onto the lobby and a guy with a dog stood there, and Brett let go of the collar like nothing had happened.
I walked out stiff-legged behind him. The dog sniffed my shoes.
