“Nicholas,” says Mary. It’s a purr. Nick feels himself breaking out in a sweat. How long has she been there? “I, I didn’t know you were here,“ he manages, and then he looks at her properly. He chokes on his words. She’s standing there like she hasn’t a care in the world, somehow still looking every inch the same woman he’s only ever applied nice to, with her hair swept back and her long legs carelessly bare, but she’s encased collar to pussy in supple black leather that hugs her every curve. It sticks to her like paint, like ink, and her lipstick’s as red as a wound. “You- what-?” Nick stutters, and Mary’s mouth quirks up at the corner. She reaches out for him- past him- and runs her red-lacquered fingernails across the surface of the gauzy negligee. She tangles her fingers with his, in lace. “You like this,” her voice is low, “don’t you?” Nick’s ability to talk is still caught somewhere down in his throat and he doesn’t know whether to nod or shake his head, but she’s already found the thing, so she has to know, or know some of it, but he still doesn’t know what to say. His tongue finally comes unstuck. “How did you…?” “You’re not nearly so quiet as you think.” His mouth works silently. He can feel blood rushing to his face and he’s sure he’s turning red. So much for discretion. Nick fishes for a response, but he’s still poleaxed that this is Mary, his kind Mary, standing there in leather like a walking wet dream with a wicked gleam in her eye.