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It was the other object resting beside them that made her cheeks grow hot.
That made her whole body go hot.
She reached for the small black object. About the size of two fingers held together, it was smooth and cool, made of silicone. There were no controls on the object, nothing to indicate what it was, and she’d spent nearly twenty minutes earlier in the day trying to figure it out before it had vibrated in her hand.
Startled, she’d dropped it on the bed as if she’d been burned. When she’d returned to the box, she’d found a small handwritten note on a crisp piece of ivory card stock.
Wear these tonight. Both of them.
Dinner at eight.
After that, she’d returned to the box and discovered the tiny pocket in the lace thong, had discovered that the little black object fit perfectly inside it. Then she’d understood.
She drew in a breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm the rush of blood in her veins. She told herself it was because she was angry, that Lyon had no right to dictate such intimate terms, not anymore.
But she knew it for the lie she was. She was thrilled by the prospect of having dinner with him, of knowing he held the control to her pleasure.
He was a sickness, and she hated herself for becoming infected.
She slipped out of her silk robe and picked up the panties. She slid them over her thighs and hips, unsurprised to find they fit perfectly. Lyon seemed to know everything about her, even the things she held close and secret. Knowing her size was nothing at all for a man like him.
She picked up the black object and slid it into the pocket at the front of the underwear. It felt strange at first, although not as bulky as she had expected. She was able to walk with no trouble, the silicone rubbing suggestively between her thighs.
She shoved down the kindling of desire. She wasn’t thinking about Lyon, about what he could do to her with the control of the tiny vibrator in his hands. She wasn’t excited by the prospect of Lyon pleasuring her from afar, about the possibility that it was a prelude to the kind of pleasure she’d experienced in his arms before she’d left Chicago.
She wasn’t.
It had been too long since she’d been with a man, that was all. She was only human.
She opened the wardrobe and removed the red dress she’d chosen. Originally, she’d planned something more staid, a simple black cocktail dress with a tasteful neckline and a hem that reached her knees.
But after she saw Lyon’s gift, she decided to have a little fun of her own.
The dress was meant to be worn without a bra, and she slipped it over her head and tugged it down over her hips.
It was tight, tighter than the dresses she normally wore, and when she turned to look in the mirror she was surprised by her reflection. She tended toward classic lines in her clothing, dresses that were subtly sexy, skimming her body, hinting at the curves underneath.
The sleeveless dress she’d chosen was not subtle. It hugged every curve of her body, making her look as if she’d been poured into it. The straps dropped to a plunging neckline, one that forced her breasts forward, creating an exaggerated and all too obvious crevasse of cleavage that emphasized her pillowy flesh. It clung to her waist and hips, accentuating her hourglass figure, ending well above her knees.
It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, which was exactly the point.
Lyon had his weapons. She had her own.
She turned to and fro in front of the mirror and adjusted the dress, ensuring it worked to maximum effect from every angle. When she was satisfied, she donned a pair of black sky-high stilettos.
She sprayed her most seductive perfume, a custom fragrance that had been blended for her on a trip to Paris with her father. Then she removed her travel jewelry case and slipped on the heirloom bangle Lyon had given her in the fall.
It was the only jewelry she wore besides her wedding ring. Let him think she accepted his ownership of her.
Let him think she was his.
If he wanted a return to their quietly adversarial relationship, she would deliver.
She picked up her simple black clutch — she wanted nothing to compete with the dress, with her body spilling out of it — and took one final look in the mirror.
She’d swept her hair into a loose chignon at the back of her neck, a style that elongated her neck and highlighted her collarbone. Her makeup had been done to perfection — smoky eyes paired with red lipstick, a combo she usually avoided in favor of highlighting only one part of her face. Tonight was not a night for subtlety.
Satisfied, she opened the door.
