Something in his shoulders eases by a fraction. He steps back, seemingly satisfied with the answer for now.
“How did you get here?” I ask before I stop myself.
“Anastasio called me,” he answers. “Told me that a cop was harassing you.”
Then, whatever softness was in his hands a second ago folds away behind his eyes, replaced by something I know better.
He cocks his head and steps towards me. “He also told me about what you fucking bought.”
I swallow again, remembering how bold I was in picking that dress.
“Now that I know that bastard didn’t touch you anywhere else.” He leans down, lips brushing against the shell of my ear, and he whispers. “I want you to show me the dress.”
I turn around and look back down the hallway towards where the seamstresses had fretted over me an hour ago. Behind a partially opened door, I spot that familiar shade of red I picked out. My feet start moving silently, and Nico follows closely behind, refusing to let me leave his orbit.
Heart fluttering, I push the door open when I get close and gasp when I see that the dress’s shape has already been cut. The slit running up the left thigh has been cut. The row of pearls is half sewn into the exposed back. Apart from the final details like the crystals around the neckline, it’s practically finished already.
All around us are large mirrors. Everywhere I look, I see myself and I see Nico. The reflections fold in on themselves, and for asingle, dizzying moment, it’s like I’m being watched by a dozen Nicos.
His hands rest on my shoulders, warmth seeping into my skin as he looks at the scandalously exposed dress. “What was the one thing I told you last night about today?”
“To be on my best behavior,” I answer.
“And what did you promise me in return?”
I swallow as the answer I condemned myself with last night returns. “That I’d be a good girl.”
“And were you on your best behavior?” His voice turns low and silky as his hand finds my waist. “Were you a good girl? Does that dress look anything close to appropriate for church?”
I know why he’s asking all of those questions one after another. They all share the same answer. So, I give him a curt shake of my head. “No.”
“No,” he repeats.
His hand tightens, sending a delicious curl of heat down my back that chases away the cold dread that had closed around my heart from earlier. I let a soft breathy moan pour out of my lip.
The moment I do, he slips his fingers underneath the fabric of my new blouse. Fire pours into my veins when skin kisses skin.
“Nico…” I breathe. “We shouldn’t.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
My mouth clamps shut. His fingers have rolled my blouse down my shoulder, and they’re now starting to tug at the straps of my bra.
"Tell me to stop, Lydia.” His voice hangs heavy and hot against my neck.
I remain silent as he slowly pulls my bra straps down my shoulders. A second later, the cups of my bra fall away, and I shiver as the cool air kisses my nipples.
“Last chance, Lydia.” He nibbles at my ear, and I refuse to make even a single sound.
Nico’s hands continue to move down my side, pushing the blouse lower and lower. Heat gathers between my legs, and my tongue darts out to wet my quivering lips when he exposes my belly.
When my blouse pools at my feet, he stops, and meets my gaze in the mirror. One hand rises up, takes my nipple between his finger and thumb, and rolls the sensitive bud. The other starts to undo the button of my new shorts, and slowly unzips it open.
“Tell me to stop, Lydia.” He palms my breast and gives it a possessive squeeze. “And I will.”
“No…” I breathe.
A devilish glint slips into his eyes, and he suddenly lets me go. I whimper at the sudden absence of his touch, wishing that he might return.
