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“Sounds like you have a plan,” I say, suddenly a little more breathless.
He shrugs. “Plan, twisted fantasies—whatever you want to call it.”
I twist one way and then the other, examining myself from every angle.
Eight months ago, this red dress fit me like a glove. It hugged my waist, pushed up the girls so I had the perfect amount of cleavage, and the slit was high without being trashy. It was the dream date night dress.
Now, it fits me like an overstuffed trash bag.
My stomach is lumpy, my boobs are swollen with milk and spilling out of the top of the dress, and the extra padding around my thighs has turned the slit into a proper cutout. My entire right leg is hanging out.
“I can’t wear this,” I mutter to myself for the tenth time.
The only reason I haven’t marched back into the closet to find something else is that there isn’t anything else. That and the fact that it’s been months since I’ve walked in heels and I’m feeling unsteady in my stilettos.
Yakov wanted “sinful.” It was an order. But the only things that fit me right now are my maternity leggings and the oversized t-shirts I wear to bed. Neither of which are something I can wear to a night out with Yakov. Not when he’s going to look immaculate in some perfectly tailored suit.
I’m turned around, examining myself from behind, when the door to the bedroom opens.
“My mother acted like it was Christmas morning when I handed the babies over,” Yakov says. “She insisted on changing a diaper herself. Can you believe that?”
Yakov rounds the corner just as I turn to face him.
He’s in a pair of dark trousers with a cashmere sweater stretched across his perfectly sculpted midsection. When he slams to a stop in the middle of the room, I can actually see his abs contract.
His eyes trail up and down my body, taking a slow tour of me. His face is unreadable. I feel like a specimen under his microscope.
“I know it doesn’t fit the way it used to.” I tug at the slit, trying to cover more of my leg. “I don’t think this dress is ‘sinful’ so much as it is ‘unlawful.’ It’s too small. I’m going to change into something more?—”
“Perfect,” Yakov breathes.
I frown. “What?”
“This.” He exhales, shaking his head slowly like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. “You. I mean… fuck.”
I’m still not one hundred percent sure what he means when he crosses the room, grabs me around the waist, and pins me against the wall. His hand strokes up my spine, arching my body into his as he looks down into my eyes. “You look fucking delicious, Luna.”
That clears things up.
“It barely fits,” I argue meekly.
Yakov slides his hand around my waist to cup my breast. “I can help you take it off.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I thought we had plans.”
He nods as his eyes trace a feverish path over my chest. “We do. Fancy dinner plans. I was going to take you out and let everyone see you on my arm. We were going to dance and then go for cocktails. I was going to take you on a long drive with the windows down.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Or…” His lips are poised over my mouth, his breath warming over my skin, “I could strip you out of this dress, fuck you until you’re too weak to stand, and feed you takeout.”
“That… that also sounds nice.” I have to force myself to swallow the lump in my throat. “That sounds—I want that. Give me that. Do that.”
Yakov’s green eyes are almost black as he pinches the shoulder strap of my dress and slides it down my arm. Inch by inch, he shimmies the dress off of me until I’m leaning against the wall in nothing but matching lacy red lingerie and my heels.
He actually bites his knuckle and groans. “Fuck, Luna. It’s been seven weeks. Are you trying to kill me?”
Ten minutes ago, I didn’t feel confident. I didn’t feel beautiful or desirable.
