I follow and wait patiently, sitting on an ottoman and scrolling through my phone. I look like every poor bastard I’ve chirped over the years for playing mall cop while their girlfriend tried on clothes. But with Lulu, I couldn’t give a single fuck. My only goal is to make her feel good about herself, less stressed and overwhelmed, and sexy as hell.
When the door finally creaks, she steps out in a sequin slip dress with a cowl neck and the tiniest spaghetti straps I’ve ever seen. Light scatters across her skin, her curves, the soft line of her throat. It’s the same blue as her eyes, and it knocks the air straight out of my lungs.
“Too much?” she asks, turning to look at herself in the mirror.
My mouth opens, but no noise comes out.
She tugs at the hem. “See? It’s ridiculous. I look like a disco ball.”
Disco ball? She looks like the sharpest fucking star in the sky.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Her eyes dart up then away, arms crossing over her front. She doesn’t see what I see—how every head in this place turns for her, how she makes the dress instead of the other way around.
She shakes her head, cheeks flaming. “Told you. Too much.”
My jaw flexes, words pressing up hard against the back of my teeth, but none of them fit.
“Go back in.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Go back in,” I say, steadier now. “We’re not done.”
She rolls her eyes and starts to retreat inside, and I push to my feet to follow her in before she can stop me.
I flick the lock behind us. The room’s small, mirror-lined, claustrophobic. Her back hits the glass as I crowd in, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her waist.
“Logan—”
“You have no idea,” I murmur, gaze dragging over every curve the dress clings to, “what you’re doing to me right now.”
Her breath stutters. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” I growl, mouth brushing her ear. “It’syouin the dress.”
Her eyes, so fucking blue right now, dance between mine, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I pin her there with my hips, my mouth brushing her ear.
“You’ve been stressed. Sulking about dresses, about standing next to the others. You think I’m letting you talk about yourself like that?”
“I wasn’t—”
Her protest dies in a gasp when I kiss her; my hand fists the hem and shoves it higher on her thigh. She moans into me, fingers clawing at my hair, dragging me closer like she’s been starving, too. When I pull back, my mouth drags over hers.
“You were.” My fingers slide under her panties, teasing over her clit until she gasps. “Lesson Nine. An attitude adjustment.”
“Logan, we can’t—someone could—”
She lets out a soft gasp against my shoulder when my fingers sink into her soaked pussy, curling deep.
“Fuck… Feels so good—don’t stop.”
She’s already a mess, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy. I curl my fingers deeper, thumb stroking her clit, and she starts to ride my hand, needy and greedy and shameless.
Her head tips back, a choked moan spilling out as I fuck her on my hand, until she’s coming undone against my palm, clutching my shoulders.
I yank my fingers free and bring them to my lips, sucking them clean with a groan. “Goddamn. You taste like fucking heaven.”
