Cottage Getaway Pt. 4

Steam billowed from the bathroom as you stepped out, warm droplets still clinging to your freshly showered skin.The plush towel wrapped around your torso barely covered anything, but modesty had long since stopped being a concern in this life.

You padded across the hardwood floor to the bedroom, your wet hair dripping slightly as you shut the door behind you. The cool air of the room sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, a stark contrast to the heat of the shower.

It was only then that your mind flicked back to Richard’s little parting gift.

A firm, unapologetic slap to your barely-covered ass as you brushed your teeth.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d slipped a thousand dollars—one thousand fucking dollars—right into your bra under your top, murmuring, “A tip for being such a good girl this morning.”

You had almost choked on your toothpaste.

Now, as you stood in front of your open suitcase, your fingers idly brushed against the folded stack of crisp bills tucked neatly into your open clutch.

Was it insulting? Degrading?

Maybe.

But it was also a thousand fucking dollars for something you were going to do anyway.

And that? That was just good business.

You smirked to yourself, dropping the towel as you turned back to your clothes.

It was time to pick out an outfit.

You sifted through your options, running your fingers over soft fabrics and expensive textures before settling on a look—something effortless but sexy, something that made it clear you belonged in a place like this.

First, you reached for a white lace bra, slipping it on with ease. It was delicate and barely-there, the semi-sheer lace hugging your curves. Next came the matching white lace panties—a soft contrast against your smooth skin.

Then, you pulled on a champagne-colored silky slip midi skirt. The fabric slithered up your thighs and settled against your hips, the high-waisted design accentuating your waist while the slight slit in the side gave just a peek of leg when you moved.

For your top, you chose a white linen billowy sleeve blouse. It was airy and light, the deep V-neck dipping just enough to show off the delicate lace of your bra without looking too intentional. You left a few buttons undone at the top for that perfect blend of casual seduction.

To finish, you stepped into your nude pointed-toe pumps—a staple, elegant and versatile, elongating your legs with minimal effort.

You admired yourself in the full-length mirror, smoothing down the fabric of your skirt. The look was soft—a balance between relaxed and undeniably alluring. It felt rich, effortless, powerful.

Exactly what you needed.

But then the door creaked open, and in stepped Sienna.

Tall, olive-skinned, and effortlessly sultry, she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed beneath her chest, pushing up the perfect swell of her cleavage in the silky robe she had very clearly not tied properly. The subtle scent of perfume and leftover indulgence from last night clung to her like an invitation.

Her dark eyes flickered over you—slowly, deliberately—lingering on the curve of your waist.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Damn, mami,” she purred, tilting her head. “You clean up nice.”

You let a slow, knowing smile curve your lips, running a hand over your hip as if smoothing out the fabric. “You’re one to talk,” you mused, letting your gaze trail over her—deliberate, teasing. “Or are you just trying to distract me?”

Sienna’s lips parted slightly, her teeth grazing over her bottom lip in a way that was very much intentional.

“Maybe,” she murmured, voice low, seductive.

The air between you was charged—a subtle challenge, an unspoken I could if I wanted to.

And then, just as smoothly as she’d entered, she pushed off the doorframe with a lazy stretch, flashing one last smirk before turning away.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t keep us waiting too long, Chica.”

Then she was gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of vanilla and temptation.

You exhaled, smirking to yourself as you reached for your accessories.

Time to finish getting ready.

You settled in front of the vanity, flipping on the warm, glowing light of the mirror. The soft hum of morning conversations drifted through the cottage, but here, in this moment, it was just you and your reflection.

Your face stared back at you, smooth and freshly cleansed, with a natural glow from the warmth of the shower. You barely hesitated before reaching for your hydrating primer, working the silky formula into your skin with expert fingers. The movement was automatic, effortless. You barely thought about what you were doing, just knew.

Foundation came next—a lightweight, luminous formula that blended seamlessly into your skin. You buffed it in with a damp beauty sponge, rolling it along the contours of your face, your jaw, your forehead. The coverage was flawless, leaving behind nothing but an even, radiant complexion.

Without skipping a beat, you reached for concealer, dabbing just enough beneath your eyes, the inner corners, and down the bridge of your nose. A few tiny dots at the center of your forehead, just enough to brighten. You blended it in with a delicate tap of your fingers, then pressed it in with the sponge, watching as your face lifted—a trick you hadn’t even realized you’d perfected until now.

Your hands moved on their own, instinctual, practiced.

Next, you took a translucent setting powder, lightly dusting it over your under-eyes and the places you needed to keep matte—around your nose, along your smile lines, your chin. Not too much. Just enough.

Then came contour—a precise sweep of cool-toned bronzer beneath your cheekbones, along your jawline, and at your temples. You blended it upward, sculpting your features, making your face look even more delicate, more striking.

You knew exactly where to place it. Knew exactly what worked.

You didn’t think about it. You just did it.

Next was blush—a warm, peachy shade that you dabbed onto the high points of your cheeks, letting it melt into your skin, giving you that soft, flushed glow. A touch across the bridge of your nose, because you’d learned somewhere that it made you look youthful, playful. You weren’t sure when you’d learned that.

But you had.

You picked up your highlighter, a champagne shimmer, dusting it lightly along the high points of your face—the tops of your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, your cupid’s bow. It caught the light just right, like a subtle, dewy glow rather than an obvious streak.

Then, without hesitation, you moved onto brows. A few quick strokes of a fine-tip brow pencil filled in the natural shape, just enough to add definition.

Your lips were next. You grabbed a neutral pink lip liner, tracing the shape with ease, slightly overlining the cupid’s bow to add a bit of extra plumpness. Then, a swipe of glossy nude lipstick, topped with the barest hint of clear gloss to make them look kissable, irresistible.

Finally, eyes.

A soft eyeshadow blended into your crease, deepening the natural shadows. A shimmering champagne shade pressed onto the center of your lids with your finger, catching the light in just the right way. You grabbed your brown eyeliner, dragging it in a perfect, subtle wing, smudging it just enough to look effortless, sultry.

Then, mascara—long, dark, fanned-out lashes that framed your eyes, making them look bigger, more inviting.

When you leaned back and took yourself in. Your makeup was _perfect. _Polished, sexy, effortless. Not too much. Not too little. And you had done it without even thinking.

But you didn’t let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you simply reached for your gold hoop earrings, fastened them in place, and stood up.

Time to go.