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As Ivan stomps toward me in flagrant violation of one of the two rules I requested—knock before you enter—he opens his mouth to say something.
Then he sees what’s in my hand. I glance at it, too, and wince.
I’m holding a rather long, quite girthy purple dildo.
“Sorry to interrupt you two,” he drawls.
I hurl the toy back in the bag and face him, my arms crossed over my chest. “You aren’t interrupting anything. I was just finding somewhere to put all this stuff.”
His other brow joins the first. My body burns with the awareness of what I’ve just said.
“Not somewhere to put it, like—” I groan. “A drawer or something! So Niles doesn’t see. What do you even want?”
He steps over the bag of toys and walks into my closet. “You need to get dressed.”
I follow him, pausing in the doorway. Being in confined spaces with Ivan Pushkin is my undoing, apparently.
“Despite what you think, I have managed to get ready on my own every day of my life up to this point. I don’t need you barging in here and—”
“We have an interview today.” He throws a bright green dress at me and then spins around and digs through my top drawer. “It came up last minute.”
“What kind of interview?”
“An engagement announcement.” He turns around, a pale pink strapless bra dangling from his fingers. “Wear this and that,” he says, pointing to the dress. “Nothing else.”
He looks through my shoe options with authority. I would have assumed he’d be lost when it came to women’s fashion, but he quickly dismisses a pair of chunky heels, a wedge, and a loafer in favor of a nude heel with a fabric tie around the ankle.
Much to my irritation, it will go perfectly with the dress.
“I don’t need your help choosing an outfit.” I edge around him and pull out the top drawer again, digging for the underwear that match the bra.
Ivan slams the drawer shut and leans against it. His biceps bulge against the sleeves of his black t-shirt. “I said ‘nothing else.’ Was that not clear?”
“I thought you meant I shouldn’t wear a jacket or something.”
“Obviously not. A jacket would look ridiculous with this dress.” He pinches the ruffled chiffon sleeves. “I meant what I said.Nothing else.”
My eyes widen as the meaning sinks in. “What part of an engagement announcement requires me to go commando?”
“The part where I required it of you,” he says coolly. “The car leaves in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”
He swoops out of the room as quickly as he entered, but I swear his pants are fitting him tighter in the crotch area than they were when he first walked in.
The door closes and I look down at the clothes in my arms. The outfit Ivan chose for me, sans proper undergarments.
Maybe he wants to avoid panty lines for the photos,I think.
Then I hold the dress up and realize that won’t be an issue. The dress has a fitted bodice, but the skirt and sleeves are light and airy. Layers of tulle and chiffon that flounce and dance as I swing the dress.
I hook on the bra and am tempted to grab the panties anyway. How would he know if I followed his orders or not? It’s not as if he is going to check…right?
Ivan has told me he does nothing without a reason. Is it possible that the reason behind this outfit choice is simply that he likes it?
He plays cool. He plays aloof. He plays distant.
But maybe Ivan Pushkin is spending his nights the way I am: tossing and turning and wondering what’s going on on the other side of the adjoining door.
I pull the dress on and delude myself into thinking that this is all part of some plan. If Ivan is more attracted to me, then it means he’ll be a better fake husband. Knowing I’m not wearing anything under my dress will make him more…attentive to me. It’s pure business. Pure strategy.
