I’d known from the moment he told me to dress for him, he’d choose a skirt. It wasn’t scandalous on paper—just shorter than anything I’d ever contemplate wearing: high-waisted black pleats brushing my mid-thigh, paired with a crisp white blouse tucked neatly and low heels that clicked like a metronome. Almost preppy. Yet every step had me quivering with exposure, skin alight under each breeze. Inside the notebook, a folde...