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“Champagne,” Jay told the bartender. “Two.”
I looked up at him, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “Not a whisky straight up? Or something equally masculine?”
Jay took the glasses, handing one to me before turning us back around with his hand at the small of my back.
My nipples hardened with the slight touch, the smallest contact creating an inferno in me. Just as he’d planned, I was sure. Some of it must’ve been due to how much he’d built me up, how much tension he’d created in my body. But the rest of it—most of it, in fact—was due to the effect he had on me. Everything about him caused some kind of ... chemical reaction. Something I couldn’t explain but was the reason I was here, in this dress, in this arrangement.
I waited for us to approach some people, any of the many staring and muttering. Sit down at one of the tables, perhaps. There were lavish circular tables scattered around the ballroom where the event was being held, but no one sat at them. Not yet, at least.
“Go to the bathroom and take off your underwear,” Jay murmured in my ear.
My grip tightened on the stem on my glass, and I almost told him I couldn’t do that. It was my first response to the prospect of entering a public restroom and leaving without wearing underwear. Especially having to walk commando back into a room full of very serious looking, rich people. Of course, they wouldn’t know I wasn’t wearing panties unless I fell to the floor in a very unladylike way. But still, I would know. Jay would know. And there was something extremely vulnerable about walking around without underwear. I’d always rolled my eyes when women said they did that in books or movies. There were plenty of excellent seamless underwear options, so VPL was a thing of the past, and the need to go bare to avoid panty lines was nonexistent.
Though I had these feelings, I did not refuse Jay. Instead, I met his eyes, handed him my flute and walked toward the restroom.
He wasn’t in the same place as he was when I came out, panties in my purse. He wasn’t the type of man who waited for his date to emerge from the bathroom, so I wouldn’t have to awkwardly interrupt the conversation he was having with a woman in a striking red dress.
The woman herself was equally striking. She was curvy, so the skin-tight dress molded perfectly to her body. It was halter neck, with tiny straps that accentuated her tan skin and ample chest. It was the perfect length, just brushing the floor so you could see hints of her heels. Either she had excellent taste or an excellent stylist.
She was standing close to Jay. Too close. Heat crawled up my throat with a very unfamiliar need to get bitchy with the gorgeous, well dressed woman who had done nothing to me but talk to the man who I was fucking—the man I hadn’t actually fucked yet. The man that wasn’t even strictly mine.
I took a breath. A deep, calming one. A breathing technique I’d learned when I got a bee in my bonnet about becoming some super toned, calm yogi and did a whole month of classes. Then I got sick of all the trophy wives talking loudly about their asshole children throughout the classes. Also, I sucked at yoga.
But the breathing thing had helped me get through a lot of very stressful situations.
At the least, it helped make sure that none of my emotions showed on my face when I approached Jay and the red dress woman. Both of them watched my approach. Jay with his typical cold intensity and the woman with a calculated judgement that only another woman could recognize. Definitely hostile. I pulled back my shoulders, walking slowly, carefully, willing myself not to trip.
I made sure to smile as I approached. Made sure that I stood beside Jay. Close. Not touching him, because I wasn’t quite sure of the rules when it came to me touching him, but close enough to communicate that he was mine. I didn’t wait for him to introduce me because I was worried he might not, and that would’ve seriously impacted my entrance.
I titled my head and regarded the woman, with no hostility or judgement. She might be playing that game, but I never would. The world wanted to pit women against each other, wanting us to see view another as rivals, encouraging us to be jealous of each other instead of supporting each other. Because if women weren’t focused on trying to battle it out for a man’s attention, then we’d discover that there were many, many greater things to covet than a man’s attention.
“I’m Stella,” I introduced myself, warmth in my voice. “I absolutely love your dress. Alexander McQueen?”
