“It’s lovely,” I say.
“It’s practical,” he says.
I raise a brow in question.
“The loop,” he says. “So simple to attach a leash.”
Oh. I swallow. “It’s like a slave collar,” I say, then lick my lips. “Is that why you think it suits me?” I say in a voice full of challenge. “Because right now, I belong to you?”
He looks straight at me. “Yes.” The word is simple and direct and so full of meaning it makes me tremble. I think of the way he bound me back in Malibu. The pleasure of surrendering to his mercy.
I remember, and it makes me wet.
I turn, then leave the store, going back out into the mall, my breath now shallow.
He follows me, and when I look up to meet his eyes, I find I cannot read his expression.
“Did you leave because the idea makes you uncomfortable?”
I consider lying. It would be so easy to just say the words and walk away.
But I don’t want to. I want the truth between us. I want to see where we go. “No,” I say. “I left because I like it.”
His expression doesn’t change. Only the slight increase in the tension of his jaw lets me know that my answer has gotten to him. “All right,” he says, and then continues to walk down the wide, store-lined corridor.
I follow, a little on edge. I’m not sure he understands my confession. Or, if he does, what that means for me.
As far as I can tell, though, the subject is dropped.
“So what are we shopping for?” I ask after five minutes have passed in silence.
“You, of course.” He gestures to the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been wearing for two days now. “You can’t live in those clothes.”
The man has a point.
“At the very least, you’ll need something for dinner tonight,” he says. “And something for tomorrow’s interview. Here,” he says, pausing in front of a store wherein every item probably costs more than my entire credit card limit.
“I can’t afford this,” I whisper as we step through the door.
He shoots me an amused expression. “I can.”
The store is apparently arranged by layer, and the first thing I see when we enter is a bin with lingerie. He reaches in and pulls out a pair of thong-style panties. He looks at them, then looks at me. I try to keep a straight face, but the whole idea of him picking out my panties is amusing me. “Why bother?” I finally say. “I’m just going to take them off.”
“I certainly hope so,” he replies with at least as much humor. “But that’s part of the fun.”
I swallow because he’s definitely called that right.
He lifts a finger to signal a salesgirl, and she comes running. He hands her the panties, along with a few other pairs in assorted colors, then tells her we need a business outfit and an evening gown. She practically genuflects toward the both of us as she leads us further back to the uncluttered displays of designer clothing.
We handle the interview suit first, and as Ryan waits on a low, black leather couch, I go into the dressing room to change. I try on three options and end up going with a classic black suit and a white silk shell. It’s more conservative than my usual style, but when we match it with three-inch black pumps, I can’t deny that I look sexy as hell.
“You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”
“Hopefully not Ellison Ward,” I say. “It would be one hell of a story, but I’d rather have the interview in my portfolio.”
He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we’re ready to see evening wear.
Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe’s dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.
I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.
“Try it on,” Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk’s eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. “I’ll be joining the lady.”
“Oh. Of course.”
She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.
I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask when he latches the door behind him.
“Watching you.” He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.
Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan’s face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.
He doesn’t, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan’s eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on—though I’m tempted to strip fully.
But this isn’t my show. The game is that I am at Ryan’s mercy, not the other way around, and though I am frustrated that he has yet to touch me, I can’t deny that I enjoy the tease—as well as this rising anticipation, so keen that it prickles my skin, making me aware of even the simple brush of air against me.
I take the dress off the hanger, then slip it on. It fits like a dream and feels like one against my skin. I stroke my hands over the soft material of the skirt, then give a little gasp of delight when I discover the hidden pocket.
I do a twirl for Ryan to show it off, then turn the pocket out. “I love this,” I say. “The dress and the pocket. It’s very retro. So a girl doesn’t have to take her purse for an evening out. This is all you need for a credit card, a key, maybe even a small lipstick.”
“I’ll carry whatever you need tonight,” he says. “And I’m less interested in pockets than in the way you look. And Jamie, you look amazing.”
I turn back around to face my reflection, and I have to agree. My summer tan makes the white dress look even more vibrant, and there’s something about the shape of it that flatters me, showing off all my curves to just the right effect.
Right now, my hair is in a very messy ponytail, but I can imagine it piled upon my head. I’ll wear minimal makeup, just a light gloss of mascara and blood-red lipstick.
Yeah, I think, I want this dress. I want to be on Ryan’s arm in this dress.
“I love it,” I tell him.
He stands and moves behind me. I expect him to touch me, but he doesn’t. But he is standing so close that I can feel his heat, his presence, and I pull it close around me, drawing in the thought of him. Feeling safe. And, yes, feeling loved.
When I meet his eyes in the mirror, my smile is tentative, even a little shy. And even so, the moment is perfect. “Thank you,” I say.
“For the dress?”
“It’s practical,” he says.
I raise a brow in question.
“The loop,” he says. “So simple to attach a leash.”
Oh. I swallow. “It’s like a slave collar,” I say, then lick my lips. “Is that why you think it suits me?” I say in a voice full of challenge. “Because right now, I belong to you?”
He looks straight at me. “Yes.” The word is simple and direct and so full of meaning it makes me tremble. I think of the way he bound me back in Malibu. The pleasure of surrendering to his mercy.
I remember, and it makes me wet.
I turn, then leave the store, going back out into the mall, my breath now shallow.
He follows me, and when I look up to meet his eyes, I find I cannot read his expression.
“Did you leave because the idea makes you uncomfortable?”
I consider lying. It would be so easy to just say the words and walk away.
But I don’t want to. I want the truth between us. I want to see where we go. “No,” I say. “I left because I like it.”
His expression doesn’t change. Only the slight increase in the tension of his jaw lets me know that my answer has gotten to him. “All right,” he says, and then continues to walk down the wide, store-lined corridor.
I follow, a little on edge. I’m not sure he understands my confession. Or, if he does, what that means for me.
As far as I can tell, though, the subject is dropped.
“So what are we shopping for?” I ask after five minutes have passed in silence.
“You, of course.” He gestures to the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been wearing for two days now. “You can’t live in those clothes.”
The man has a point.
“At the very least, you’ll need something for dinner tonight,” he says. “And something for tomorrow’s interview. Here,” he says, pausing in front of a store wherein every item probably costs more than my entire credit card limit.
“I can’t afford this,” I whisper as we step through the door.
He shoots me an amused expression. “I can.”
The store is apparently arranged by layer, and the first thing I see when we enter is a bin with lingerie. He reaches in and pulls out a pair of thong-style panties. He looks at them, then looks at me. I try to keep a straight face, but the whole idea of him picking out my panties is amusing me. “Why bother?” I finally say. “I’m just going to take them off.”
“I certainly hope so,” he replies with at least as much humor. “But that’s part of the fun.”
I swallow because he’s definitely called that right.
He lifts a finger to signal a salesgirl, and she comes running. He hands her the panties, along with a few other pairs in assorted colors, then tells her we need a business outfit and an evening gown. She practically genuflects toward the both of us as she leads us further back to the uncluttered displays of designer clothing.
We handle the interview suit first, and as Ryan waits on a low, black leather couch, I go into the dressing room to change. I try on three options and end up going with a classic black suit and a white silk shell. It’s more conservative than my usual style, but when we match it with three-inch black pumps, I can’t deny that I look sexy as hell.
“You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”
“Hopefully not Ellison Ward,” I say. “It would be one hell of a story, but I’d rather have the interview in my portfolio.”
He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we’re ready to see evening wear.
Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe’s dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.
I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.
“Try it on,” Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk’s eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. “I’ll be joining the lady.”
“Oh. Of course.”
She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.
I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask when he latches the door behind him.
“Watching you.” He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.
Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan’s face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.
He doesn’t, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan’s eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on—though I’m tempted to strip fully.
But this isn’t my show. The game is that I am at Ryan’s mercy, not the other way around, and though I am frustrated that he has yet to touch me, I can’t deny that I enjoy the tease—as well as this rising anticipation, so keen that it prickles my skin, making me aware of even the simple brush of air against me.
I take the dress off the hanger, then slip it on. It fits like a dream and feels like one against my skin. I stroke my hands over the soft material of the skirt, then give a little gasp of delight when I discover the hidden pocket.
I do a twirl for Ryan to show it off, then turn the pocket out. “I love this,” I say. “The dress and the pocket. It’s very retro. So a girl doesn’t have to take her purse for an evening out. This is all you need for a credit card, a key, maybe even a small lipstick.”
“I’ll carry whatever you need tonight,” he says. “And I’m less interested in pockets than in the way you look. And Jamie, you look amazing.”
I turn back around to face my reflection, and I have to agree. My summer tan makes the white dress look even more vibrant, and there’s something about the shape of it that flatters me, showing off all my curves to just the right effect.
Right now, my hair is in a very messy ponytail, but I can imagine it piled upon my head. I’ll wear minimal makeup, just a light gloss of mascara and blood-red lipstick.
Yeah, I think, I want this dress. I want to be on Ryan’s arm in this dress.
“I love it,” I tell him.
He stands and moves behind me. I expect him to touch me, but he doesn’t. But he is standing so close that I can feel his heat, his presence, and I pull it close around me, drawing in the thought of him. Feeling safe. And, yes, feeling loved.
When I meet his eyes in the mirror, my smile is tentative, even a little shy. And even so, the moment is perfect. “Thank you,” I say.
“For the dress?”
