Randy nods without question, ushering me back, his hands efficient on the buttons.
The next is a ballgown style with layers of tulle cascading from a fitted bodice.The skirt is voluminous and romantic.It swishes as I move, and the fabric is surprisingly light and airy.And Moretti can’t argue with the off-the-shoulder straps.
In the mirror, I study myself critically.
The fullness feels overwhelming.
Randy is behind me, waiting for my response.
I want to like it so I can get this whole thing over with.Instead, I shake my head.
And then Moretti’s voice reaches across the distance like a whiplash.
“Valentina!I’m waiting for you.”
ChapterTen
Valentina
“Shall we show him?”Randy asks.
It’s awful on me, and we both know it.
But having no choice, I shrug.After smoothing the skirt, I leave the room, make my way to the waiting area, and step up onto the platform.
Dante leans forward this time, elbows on knees, his dark eyes tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my cleavage, the way the tulle flares around my hips.His gaze is a caress, igniting sparks along my skin, and I feel exposed, vulnerable under that intensity.
My breath shortens, pulse racing in my ears, a mix of fury and arousal that makes my thighs clench.He sits back, shakes his head once.“Even though you are a princess, this is too fairytale-like.It softens you too much.You’re not fragile, Valentina.I want to see you in something that matches your fire.”
No doubt naked would work for him.
Back in the dressing room, Randy selects another, a sheath with intricate lace overlay, cap sleeves, and a deep V-neck that plunges between my breasts.The lace is delicate against my skin, patterns of flowers and vines that itch slightly but mold to my body, the silk beneath smooth and warm.
It clings to every curve, the train minimal, emphasizing my height, my poise.I turn, the lace shifting with me, and feel a spark of confidence—this one asserts power, sensual without excess.
But as I emerge, Dante’s eyes darken, hunger flashing before he masks it.He stands, circles the platform—me—slowly, his footsteps measured, the air thickening with his proximity.
Heat radiates from him, and I smell his cologne, citrus and masculine, stirring memories of his body against mine.
His hand brushes my arm as he passes, a deliberate graze that sends electricity through me, settling between my legs.
“Closer,” he murmurs, stopping in front of me, his breath warm on my skin.“But the lace is too busy.It distracts from you.”
This is rejection but laced with approval, his voice rough, eyes tracing the V-neck with blatant desire.Emotion floods—frustration at his pickiness, arousal from his nearness, a budding trust that he wants me seen as I am, not diminished.
“How about if you give us a better idea of what you’re looking for, Mr.Moretti?”Randy summons an assistant, and she returns with a couple of other selections.
There’s a trumpet silhouette with beaded bodice and flowing skirt that Moretti dismisses as being “too flashy, not enough substance.”
The flowy bohemian number with sheer sleeves is turned down because “it’s too free-spirited, not commanding enough for a Moretti bride.”
Frustrated, I prop my hands on my hips.
He’s exhausted me.
“Go back to the dressing room.”His voice is commanding but undercut by a softness that shocks me.“I’ll find something.”
At this point, I’d wear a potato sack.
