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He wanted my measurements so he could send me damn near a whole new wardrobe, including bras and panties that were surprisingly tame. Hanes white cotton low rise briefs and several white cotton bras with one exception: a black lace panty, bra and garter set which I spent an hour trying to figure out how it all worked.
How women wore garters and hose every day is beyond me. Just getting them hooked onto those little sliding holder deals had me twisted in a pretzel and watching YouTube videos trying to figure out why it was so ridiculously hard to get the whole set up to work.
The packages arrived a couple hours after the ‘audition’ and Brigid and I spent the rest of the evening opening everything like it was the Christmas morning we’d never had.
Besides the clothes and shoes from Dior and Channel, Burberry and Jimmy Choo, there was French Perfume, custom made shampoos, conditioners, and soaps, along with this incredible over the top, full set of orange and brown Globetrotter luggage to carry it all in. It’s enough clothes for a month fit for an actress that’s winning Oscars not taking some shady roleplay gig for a weekend. He sent a phone as well, all set up with his number only programmed in. It was a great surprise since Brigid and I have been sharing a shitty pay-as-you-go Motorola since Dad quit paying the cell phone bill six months ago.
There were also four bottles of some high-end vitamins with a note that said it was a requirement of the job that I take them with a full glass of water twice a day.
Daddy’s Orders.
I guess his “daughter” is a spoiled princess.
And I’m a little jealous.
Of myself, apparently.
“It pleases me you followed my instructions on your attire for today. You’d bring most men to their knees in that outfit.”
I glance at Dietrich and shiver as the limo hums along the freeway.
“Doesn’t seem to be working on you,” I answer, the tension palatable in the back of the limo as Dietrich takes in the white lace Prada wrap dress with a silk ribbon belt, complete with a bow above my ass all paired with a pair of scarlet patent leather Jimmy Choo pumps. “I feel a bit like a virgin sacrifice.”
“Well, that’s because I’m not most men, but you say ‘virgin sacrifice’ one more time and I’ll be putting you on your knees.”
I can’t tell if he’s playing with me or not. I’ve never wondered what men look like naked, but with this man? It’s hard to think of anything else.
I want to see the muscles in his back. The way his torso broadens when he takes a deep breath. How defined are his abs? He’s a big guy. Burly, I guess you’d say. Like a powerlifter that enjoys a good burger and a beer but dressed like a billionaire on the cover of a romance novel.
I think it’s sexy the way his belly pushes out just over his belt and his arms and legs strain against the slick fabric of his navy-blue suit. Imagine an intense and grumpy, fifty-year-old Henry Cavill with a dad bod.
Freakin’ hotter than Vegas in July.
The A/C blows against the sheen of sweat on my skin and I fight off a shiver.
“Too cold again?” Dietrich flashes those eyes my way, a symphony of every shade of blue in Monet’s palette with subtle, wise creases at the corners that make me swoon. He taps the thermostat button that serves my side of the Mercedes’ back seat, raising it a few degrees and taking the chill out of the air.
Since we started driving, he’s adjusted the temperature for me seven times. He has a spooky sixth sense about my climate control needs and it’s sort of comforting but also a little creepy.
I can’t help thinking he’s got a read on my x-rated thoughts with that hint of a sexy smirk and the way the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen.
When we met, in those first seconds, I felt as though he wasassessingme. Cataloging every detail.
Watching my breathing, the twitch of my fingers, the dilation of my irises and the temperature of my skin. The way my nipples sprung to life. I was sure he could sense the dampness in my panties.
Mind reading is impossible, of course. I mean, there are hit shows here in Vegas with those mentalist types and they are incredible but surely Dietrich doesn’t possess that level of skill when it comes to reading me.
And my smutty romance thoughts.
I wonder how thick his dick is? It looked quite respectable behind his slacks yesterday in the living room…
He coughs, covering a chuckle.
“What’s funny?” I snip, running my hands up and down the goosebumps on my bare arms.
“Funny?” He sniffs, covering his mouth with his sexy man hand.
