“Sir would never kill you.” Downing my whiskey, I nod for the manager to pour another.Just one more.“You can close one eye,” I offer. “I have to see my body from every angle, and you have to guard me. You can’t guard me with both eyes closed, can you?”
He knows I’m teasing.
I don’t want to parade around in front of anyone besides Sir, but Sir isn’t here. He should be. He should be here with us, but he isn’t! I feel a stir of resentment and bitterness tickling my stomach as the thoughts come to me.
HJ narrows his eyes. “You have always been trouble. I assure you that my ears work just as well as my eyes do.”
“Great! Then we’ll toast to your dobber rat ears,” I declare, taking another sip. “To whiskey, macarons, and Henchman Jeeves’s fantastic hearing.”
Finishing my whiskey, I peruse the racks over the next fifteen minutes, and admittedly, my brain definitely feels fluffier. Like, less heavy with concerns and anxieties, less bothered, more… fluffy.
They should call itinfluffy, not intoxicated.
On a whim, between bites of macaron and the sound of HJ and Jasmine chatting, I slip into the dressing room and glide the satin curtain across, enclosing myself.
The light is bright but flattering. The mirrors are full-length, wiped to shiny perfection by an obsessive hand.
I strip off my jeans and favourite maternity blouse before slipping into an eggshell-coloured lace lingerie set with little Gs embroidered into it.
The stitching and straps are fine and dainty. It’s very revealing—my nipples show through the tiny translucent lace triangles covering my vulnerable baby-feeding breasts, and the crotch is stitched open so there is no need to remove it. I slide on the matching stockings, suspenders, and thigh garters.
I stare at myself.
My pussy gets wet instantly, thinking about what he will do to me in this. What he’ll take from my body, demand from it… I want it. Now. I am still his little deer, his sweet girl who needs to be fucked and pampered, not just a wifey, right? A wifey doesn’t have to be alone when she shops, right? A wifey doesn’t have to do everything on her own just because she’s independent and titled,right?Is this the beginning of my wifey-hood—straight up the worst fucking hood I’ve ever lived in.
Ugh.
“I need my phone, please.” I call out from inside the private dressing room. “Jasmine?”
She opens the curtains and gasps. “Hot.”
“Fuck.” I blanch, gaze jerking to HJ’s reflection in the mirror as he spins to face the wall, but hedefinitelygot a flash of my main-street and downtown. “Jasmine!”
“Sorry!” She passes me my phone. “I didn’t think.”
I take the phone and pull the curtain shut, closing myself inside again, heart in my throat now.
Breathing calmly, braininfluffyand heart yearning, I snap some pictures from different angles. From behind, lifting my shoulder, looking over it. From the front, placing my foot on the satin stool so the image captures the slit that exposes my pussy and blonde pubic hairs. He loves my hair.
I know the rules, and I know Clay's rules like I know the shape of his smile or his steady, commanding nod: send nothing digital that might distract him. But I'm reckless with longing and whiskey and hormones.
So, I thumb the photos straight to him before my better judgment can even clear its throat…
Fuck.
I stare at the screen.
Double fuck.
Blue ticks appear.
Triple fuck.
Oh God,I’m sweating, I’m so excited.
His reply comes in less than a minute, a single word, no-caps:
Clay: pretty
