It was three days before Amy walked back into the boutique.
She hadn't planned to return so soon. But the way Peter looked at her in that fitting room, how his voice dropped when he got close, how her breath had quickened when he said she was dangerous in that—it played on a loop in her mind.
And maybe, just maybe, she liked the feeling.
This time, she wore jeans and a cropped knit top that hugged her curves like it missed them. No bra—just a whisper of daring beneath the fabric. She told herself it was for comfort, but she knew better.
Peter was at the register when she walked in. His head lifted, and the change in his posture was immediate—straightened spine, sharp eyes, that cocky half-smile that made her insides shift.
"Well," he said, folding his arms, "look who's back to test my professionalism."
"I figured you needed another challenge," she replied, walking straight up to him. "Besides, you said I was dangerous. Maybe I wanted to see if you meant it."
Peter's eyes dropped to her chest, subtly—but not subtly enough.
"Looks like you dressed to raise my blood pressure."
Amy leaned a hip on the counter. "It's tight-knit. Keeps the tension in."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "What are you here for today? Another fitting? Or just more reckless conversation?"
"Oh, I'm here for something very specific," she purred, stepping around the counter. "You said you had troublemaker straps last time. I want to see them."
Peter blinked. "Troublemaker… straps?"
"Lingerie," she clarified, but her voice dipped suggestively. "Something with attitude. Something that bites back a little."
His eyes narrowed, amused and intrigued. "I think I've got something. But it requires... hands-on assistance."
Amy didn't flinch. "Good. I like experienced help."
He led her to the back—past the usual racks, to a smaller side room with mood lighting and a velvet bench. The air felt heavier here, like the walls knew secrets.
Peter pulled a box from a shelf and opened it to reveal a black lace bustier, complete with adjustable leather-like straps and delicate silver clasps. It looked like trouble—and Amy loved it instantly.
"Oh," she breathed, fingers trailing over the fabric. "That's wicked."
Peter grinned. "You said no rules, remember?"
Without another word, she stepped into the fitting area and closed the curtain—but left it just slightly parted.
Seconds later, her voice came low and lazy: "Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"I might need help getting these straps to sit right."
Silence. Then the curtain moved, and he slipped inside, slowly.
Amy stood in the half-lit space, her bare back exposed as she held the bustier in place with one hand. The top framed her breasts exquisitely, lifting and pressing them together in a way that almost felt obscene.
She looked over her shoulder. "They're slipping."
Peter moved closer, breath catching. "I can… fix that."
He adjusted the first strap carefully, fingers brushing her skin. She didn't move—except for the slight shiver that followed each touch.
The second strap sat high across her shoulder, and as he pulled it snug, her body leaned back just slightly—against him.
Peter stilled. His hand lingered on her back, dangerously close to the curve of her waist.
"You do this for all your customers?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Only the ones who wear it like this."
Amy's lips curved. "And how's that?"
"Like they don't mind what happens when the straps fall off."
His hand slid lower—to the small of her back. She didn't stop him.
"Is it too tight?" he murmured.
She turned to face him—barely inches between them, her chest rising and falling with heat. "No," she said. "Not tight enough."
Their eyes locked. Her fingers caught his wrist, guiding it to the front clasp. The air between them buzzed.
"I think you're trying to test me," Peter said.
"No," Amy replied. "I already know the answer."
For a moment, it looked like he might kiss her—but instead, he stepped back, jaw tense.
"Put your shirt back on," he said roughly. "Or I won't be able to."
Amy bit her bottom lip, breathless but thrilled. "That was the idea."
She dressed slowly, enjoying the pulse in her chest, the electricity still crackling between them.
When she stepped out, Peter was waiting—calm again, on the surface. But his voice gave him away.
"You keep this up," he said, "and I'm going to need a damn cold shower before lunch."
She leaned in, kissed the air beside his cheek, and whispered, "Make it a hot one. I like when things steam."
Then she left him there, hands clenched behind the counter, watching her hips sway out the door like the ending of a perfect dream.