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I let Damien take my coat and lead me to a dressing room, where I shimmy out of everything but my panties and let the dress pour over my head. It’s soft and stretchy. Drapes perfectly over my curves and falls to the floor where it flares at my ankles. But of course the best part–the only part that matters–is the peek-a-boobs. It’s a perfect window. This one isn’t tasteful and classy like the versions I wear to work. It is exactly what Blackthroat has been accusing me of–a full on framing of my cleavage.
Eat your heart out, Brick Blackthroat.
* * *
Brick
I text Madison the single wordherewhen the limo pulls up in front of Ruby’s favorite dress boutique.
If this were a date, I’d get out of the limo to greet her when she comes out, but since it’s very specificallynota date, I stay in the limo and let Tony, my driver, open the door to the back.
As it turns out, it was forward thinking of me because I sprout a chub the moment I see her.
Fuck. Me.
I should fire her on the spot. After this morning’s phone call, she has it coming.
It’s the cut of her dress that slays me. Brick red–fuck–did she do that on purpose? With a cut-out window to her breasts, and this time, it’s a genuine peek-a-boob. The plunging triangle cutout ends well below her breasts and gives me a view of–holy hell–at least half of her breasts.
And what gorgeous juicy handfuls they are. As beautiful as I suspected.
Her bob, which is normally sleek and straight, has loose, beachy waves in it, and her make-up is movie-star worthy. Dark red lipstick that matches the dress and dramatic black eyeliner that extends behind the outer corners of her eyes.
I exhale through my nose as she gets in, so I don’t take in her scent at the same time I’m recovering from the sight of her.
“Are you testing me, Madison?” I snap.
She gives me her fake-innocent expression. “I’m sorry?”
I will myself not to look below her eyes.
Not below.
Don’t look dow–fuck.
I want to pull her onto my lap and fondle those sweet breasts until I find out what she likes.
I’m guessing rough. She likes it rough.
And that thought did nothing for the boner in my tuxedo pants.
“Like what you see?”
Since I’m incapable of conversing about her breasts–I mean the scandalous cut of her dress–I give a brief nod. “It’ll do.”
“My goodness,” she pretends to fan herself. “Such flattery.”
“I don’t pay you six figures to flatter you.” I risk looking toward her ankles. It should be safe enough.
Except it’s not.
She’s wearing strappy high heel sandals that wrap around the ankle and across the toes and her toenails are painted in the same, glorious, brick red.
I don’t even like brick red, but my wolffucking lovesthat she picked my name as the color.
I don’t think it was an accident. Very little with Madison seems uncalculated.
“I told you specifically not to wear that sort of dress. Or shoe. Are you testing me?”
