We’re in a private room at La Perla, and Alex has dismissed both the staff and the offer of a bottle of champagne. We have a comfortable chair he hasn’t touched, a sturdy table for what purpose I don’t know, racks of extremely expensive lingerie with no prices, and more mirrors than anyone would find awkward.
“And this one.” It’s a bodysuit with cutouts, the material thin enough that it will show everything.
The pieces are beautiful, but the purpose of them is clear, and I’m not feeling it. I don’t want to dress up for Alex. Not anymore, and certainly not like this.
I want to leave.
Not just this room, but this toxic, macabre imitation of a relationship.
“Start with the camisole,” he says, handing it to me, laying the bodysuit on the table and taking the chair. He crosses one ankle over his other knee and looks at me expectantly.
And this is the problem, right here: I haven’t figured out how to say no to him.
That’s not even true. Ihavefigured out how to say no to him. The problem is, he just ignores it.
I need to figure out how to get him toacceptno. But I’m not convinced I ever will.
One more try, for the road.
“You like these ones?”
“I’ll know when I see them on you.”
I was hoping for a straight yes. I attempt my line anyway. “Then let’s buy them, and go home. I’m notin the mood to—”
“Put it on, Vicky.” It’s calmly delivered, but it’s not a request.
I know exactly how it’ll go.
“No.”
“Put it on, or I’ll spank you.”
“No.”
“You’re asking for this, aren’t you? You want them to hear, don’t you?”
I slip my dress from one shoulder, then the other. It falls to my waist, and his eyes take in my bare breasts. What are the chances I’ll walk out of here wearing underwear? Not high.
It takes a moment to wiggle the dress over my hips. I let it fall, stepping out of it carefully, not wanting to damage it. He’d make me wear it if I did; at least he hasn’t ripped it off me.
That leaves me in only a pair of heels, the mirrors everywhere showing how naked and vulnerable I am.
The camisole is soft and silky. I lift it over my head, and it slides down my skin. It’s intimate, caressing, sensual. It doesn’t deserve me, and I don’t deserve it.
It clings to my breasts and doesn’t quite reach the bottom of my ass.
The girl in the mirrors is beautiful, though maybe a little sad. I lift my head and straighten my spine, and that helps.
“Exquisite,” Alex murmurs. “Come here, let me see it.”
One would think he could see from there.
I walk to him anyway, knowing what he means. He uncrosses his legs and spreads his knees for me, leaning forward, a hand reaching for my waist. Pulling me close, off balance. I have to brace on his shoulder.
His hands slide up and the camisole rises too, slipping over my skin like there’s no friction. His eyes meet mine, hungry and possessive. “You’re so gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” The words come out meaningless, hollow, but I think I’ve gotten away with it. He hasn’t noticed. It was rash; I can’t afford for him to think anything’s different.
