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Bronson studies the shirt on my body, hanging loose just above my knees. “You can borrow any of my shirts except this one,” he says, pointing at the ‘Olaf you a lot’ shirt.
He eyes me a little longer, the laps of his gaze like a tongue moving across my skin. I squeeze my thighs together. He grins wider. “I like you in my shirts, but right now, I need you in something more. . .appropriate.”
I lift a brow at him, my expression unimpressed. “I don’t have anythingmore appropriate. I didn’t exactly pack for my lady-napping.”
He nods, his expression shifting instantly to one more serious. “I need you to ride up front with me. And I need you to behave. Wear what I tell you to wear. Do not speak. Do not look anyone in the eye.”
A shiver rushes over my spine at his words.
His tone.
Fumbling for a reply, I come up blank. I simply follow him as he walks to the cupboard, watching as he pulls out a short black dress. Only it isn’t quite a dress. Scrolling the boning and lace and silk, I figure the material covers everything but definitely balances on the cusp of too short. It completely stomps on the cusp of flashing half my breasts. I scoff. It’s definitely not ‘more appropriate.’
“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m wearing that!” I state, feeling anger wrap itself around my body, covering me better than that ‘dress’ will.
He says nothing.
With a smirk playing around his face, he lays the dress down on the mattress and pulls out a pair of knee-high leather boots with at least a six-inch wedge. As his silence stretches, furthering my unease, I scowl at him. He moves to a drawer where he retrieves a thin, sparkly black headband.
No.
Not a headband.
A necklace. . .
A fucking collar.
I see red.
Vibrating with rage, I hiss through locked teeth, “Who the hell do you think I am to you, you fucking maniac? I’m not a goddamn dog!”Where is my fucking pan!I spin to search for it, but the words he uttered yesterday still me.
‘I’ve changed in the last ten years. . . My tastes have changed’.
Suddenly, the image of beautiful girls willingly wearing that collar for him flash behind my eyes. Obedient girls. Girls who submit to his every whim. The vision of them and him makes me want to slap them and him and put the collar around his fucking neck, parade him around so they all know whohebelongs to.
God.. . .
I breathe out fast.
Exhaling my jealousy and disdain, hating the way it suffocates me, I say, “I am not one of your slutty, moronic girlfriends, Bronson. I am not here willingly. I am not your submissive. I am not a whore. I am not-“
“You’re not, baby,” he interrupts, eyeing me with amusement, making me want to slap that gorgeous face again. “I heard you. You’re not.”
“I’m a doctor,” I say, as though that title holds weight despite his grinning face, provoking me to want to stomp like a child. I can’t be a doctor and wear that.
He chuckles softly. “I know you are.”
“Forget it,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. “I’m not wearing that fucking dress or that” –I point to the leather band in his big hand– “thing.”
He gazes down at the collar fondly, stroking the leather sensually, the genuine sexuality in his touch and eyes resonating at the delta between my thighs.Fuck.My heart begins to beat at an erratic tempo. “Thisthing. . . is to protect you, baby,” he says, looking up at me.
Trying to hold my resolve, I fight the fantasy of his fingers stroking me between my folds in a similar slow and meaningful way. I glance at his Olaf shirt but it does very little to dampen his sex appeal. In fact, it just makes him even more of an enigma.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Does that crap usually work on girls?”
I can see why. . .
He smirks, his dimple moving into the space above his soft, charismatic curve. His eyes move between the leather and my neck where he can probably see the racing of my pulse through the thin sheath of skin. “They don’t usuallyneedconvincing.”
