Then he takes one of my hands and tugs at the dry zipper of my boxing glove, taking it off, same with the other one. He takes my hands in his, lifting them, also studying them. He tenderlyruns his thumb over the red, ripped knuckles. Then he leans down to my ear, so close I can smell his perfume on his neck.
“Be in the lobby at ten p.m.,” he says as he straightens, still holding my hands, now looking right into my eyes again. “And don’t wear a dress.”
Shocks run down my body.
“Are you asking me on a date?” I tease, lifting my eyebrows.
But he just scoffs.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s a work trip.”
He winks at me, a smirk playing on his lips. I nod slowly, entirely frozen by his presence. Again.
Then he turns on his heel and leaves. I breathe out, rolling my eyes at myself because—what the fuck.
?
I’m standing in front of my mirror after I spent the last hour panicking.
Don’t wear a dress.
What does that mean? What should I wear?
I changed maybe twenty times before I realized he could probably see me on the cameras jumping through the suite, throwing all the clothes around.
Then I sat on the sofa, drowning in my own embarrassment and recollecting how many times I had a nervous tantrum that could be visible on the cameras.
Oh God. Is he really taking me out?
What else would it be?
I’m finishing my hair, brushing it to perfection and I put on dark red lip gloss. My hands are shaking too much to do eyeliner,so I guess I’m satisfied with quite natural makeup. I’m standing only in a white lingerie set in front of my bathroom mirror.
He always loved white on me. If I want to bring old Kasien back, I need all the weapons I have in my arsenal.
Lingerie it is.
And dress.
Fuck him, I’m wearing a dress. I’m not going on a date in pants.
I pull on black tights, because the September nights are cold already, and slip into a black cocktail dress with my Louboutin’s. A black suit jacket on top, dark and polished, the kind of look that makes people think twice. I love it.
I take a shot of whatever is on my cocktail table to stabilize my nerves and head toward the lobby. The heels are making brain-scratching sounds on the marble floor. As soon as I step on the first stair, I see him standing down there in the middle of the lobby, his back to me. He’s wearing black pants and a black sweatshirt, those devastating scarred hands in his pockets.
He turns around, lifting his gaze up to me, not looking away while I descend the stairs to the lobby. His expression is unreadable as always, eyes black. As soon as I get to the last few stairs he breaks out of his trance and jumps to me, giving me his hand to descend the last couple of stairs.
Devil in disguise himself.
He finally half-smiles, looking at my dress when I give him a bold look.
“This is how I dress for work, like it or not,” I say with audacity.
He takes me in, slow and thorough, a hint of something dark settling in his eyes.
“Of course you do,” he says quietly.
He places his hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the garage. The moment we step inside, he reaches for the keys and heads straight for the motorbike when realization hits me.
