Wall Street Ken swivels around, leering openly. “Damn baby, look at you.”
I unleash my inner feral cat, hissing at him as I desperately try to push my dress back together. I’m showing way too much underboob, as well as torso.
Kayla tries to push the two parts of the dress together. “It’s very stiff, I can’t!”
Wall Street Ken, now the comedian, fires back with a “That’s what she said!” line, earning a high-five from his buddy. Really original, pal.
His crew’s loving it, hooting like a pack of hyenas as they feast their eyes on my fashion fiasco. More Toms, Dicks, and Harrys turn to gawk too. Lovely.
As if perfectly timed to maximize my humiliation, in come Willow and Connor, making their grand entrance fashionably late. Because of course they fucking do.
What’s left of my shriveled soul after becoming an accomplice to grand theft auto officially dies from shame.
Connor’s hand rests casually on Willow’s back, like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, all glamorous and put-together.
Connor cuts through the crowd, his stare landing straight on me.
Kill me now.
He actually stops dead, jaw dropping open as he takes in the spectacle.
To my blistering dismay, he charges toward me, dragging Willow behind him. They were supposed to go right to their table. This wasn’t in the script.
Kayla winces sympathetically. “I can’t watch this trainwreck.”
“Thanks, Kayla. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I reluctantly meet Connor’s blistering stare as he stops directly in front of me, eyes homed in on my futile attempts to hold my dress together.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he snaps by way of greeting, raking a hand over where his hair would be, had he not been sporting that ruggedly shaven look.
“It’s not a style choice, my zipper exploded!” I shoot back indignantly. Painfully aware of Connor’s heavy gaze sweeping my exposed skin before snapping back to my surely crimson face.
He looks momentarily thrown, muscle feathering his tight jaw. “Jesus, Lexi . . . you’re practically indecent.” His gravelly reprimand sends more heat flaming my burning cheeks.
I grunt in a very unladylike manner. “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed!”
Willow’s attempt to hide her giggle behind her clutch does nothing to ease the tension.
Connor curses under his breath. Then shockingly, starts unbuckling his belt. Um, what’s happening right now? Is he going to spank me for my fashion faux pas?
As he slides the belt from his waist, I can’t resist a quip. “You don’t have to go all Magic Mike on me in solidarity.”
That earns me a withering glare.
“Hold still,” he orders gruffly. Before I can protest, he wraps the warm leather firmly around my exposed waist. Rough handstake control—forcefully pressing the two halves of the dress together and cinching it tightly to keep the ragged fabric in place.
I gasp involuntarily—whether it’s from the scrape of his knuckles leaving trails of heat across my sensitive stomach or the commanding dominance as he fixes his belt on me, I’m not entirely sure anymore. It’s like he’s claiming ownership over my body with each tug of the belt.
“There, you’re not flashing the entire bar anymore,” he rumbles low near my ear.
“Oh thank god,” I breathe unevenly, even though I look ridiculous wearing a bodycon dress with a broken zip up the middle and a man’s belt securing me in place. It’s not exactly runway material, but at least it’s not rated R anymore.
My hand moves unconsciously to loosen his makeshift belt corset strangling oxygen from my lungs. Only for Connor to clamp my wrist midair before I make contact, danger smoldering in his sudden warning stare. “Don’t . . .”
Pulse galloping, I let my hand drop obediently.
Willow looks murderous now, her smile dried up. Oh yeah, we’ve gone off-script big time. Again.
