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The robe is cinched tight around her narrow waist and brushes the tops of her thighs. She’s sexuality incarnate. An angel built for sin—and she’s venturing out into the world without me.
I don’t like it one fucking bit.
“The girls?” I inquire.
“Your mother, sister, and sister-in-law,” she explains. “I also invited Rowan.”
“Is security invited?”
“Don’t worry; we’ve got ten armed bodyguards between the five of us. I figured that would be enough to satisfy you.”
I frown as she walks past me into the closet. Nothing about this conversation is doing a damn thing to satisfy me. Especially when she shrugs off her robe.
I feel my cock spring to life so fast that it makes me lightheaded.
She’s wearing a transparent black thong so tiny she might as well be wearing nothing at all. The matching bra covers her nipples and little else. I can see the generous half-moon of her breasts.
She doesn’t look like she’s trying to rile me up. Her expression is distant as she pulls out a dress and examines it. But somehow, the idea that she isn’t even thinking of me has me chomping at the bit.
She steps into a shimmering champagne cocktail dress that ends at her ass and puts her cleavage on full display.
“Would you mind zipping me up?” she asks, turning her back to me.
I stare at the deep V of the open zip. At the long curve of her spine. I can see the top of her thong just above the dimples in her lower back.
“Misha?” she asks when I don’t reply or move to help.
I clear my throat and zip her up despite my reservations about the outfit. There’s no way I can justify asking her to change. Not without opening a can of worms that’s better off left firmly sealed.
“You sure you’re going to be comfortable in that?” I ask, taking a stab at it anyway.
“It’s actually very comfortable,” she says, walking back into the room and running a brush through her hair.
“It’s… tight.”
She turns to me with a frown. “And?”
“The, uh… the baby,” I say, covering up my cringe with a cough.
“The baby has plenty of space in there. Don’t worry.”
Then she grabs a sequined clutch and slips on a pair of three inch stilettos. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says with a distant wave.
“Tomorrow?” I say, balking.
She stops at the door. “We might be out late. I’ll probably crash at your mom’s place afterwards.”
“You’re taking a driver. He can bring you home afterwards.”
“I don’t know what they have planned. It might be more fun to turn the party into a sleepover.” She arches her brow. “What does it matter to you? It’s not like you need me to sleep next to you.”
And there it is: the subtle little “fuck you” that reminds me that I can’t afford to complain about any of this. Not without revealing all of my cards. Not without throwing myself headlong down the rabbit hole.
“Have fun,” I say grudgingly.
She gives me a tight smile. “Thank you.”
“Blyat’,” I swear under my breath the moment she disappears.
