Page 46 of They All Own Me

"No." I grab her elbow, steering her toward a more practical clothing shop. "This is what Tatum would pick for herself, not what your piece of shit husband would choose."

"Right, right," she says, almost like she's convincing herself. "Easier said than done to break the habit."

Three hours later, we've got a decent haul of jeans, t-shirts, sneakers and boots. You can take the woman out of the stepford, but you can't take the stepford out of the woman. I don't know how it's humanly possible to spend three hours in a mallamongst other humans and not be ready to lose your fucking mind.

I'm dodging another rich fuck who can't keep their nose out of their iphone long enough to watch where the fuck they're going when I hear her voice.

"Can we look in there?" She points to a high-end boutique. "Just for fun?"

I check my watch. We've got time. "Fine. But make it quick."

I trail behind her as she flits through the racks of evening gowns, her fingers dancing across the fabrics. The boutique attendant hovers nearby, clearly unsure what to make of my presence.

"This one." Tatum pulls out a black dress with a plunging neckline. "I just want to try it on."

I nod, settling into one of the plush chairs outside the dressing room. A few minutes later, she emerges, and I have to damn near tell myself to remember how to breathe. The dress hugs her every curve, the slit climbing dangerously high up her thick thigh. The lowcut neckline doing all it can to hold her luscious tits in place. She's transformed from some stuffy senator's wife to something dangerous, powerful. Like she just stepped out of some kind of Bond movie. She's fucking exquisite.

"Well?" She spins, the fabric swirling around her legs.

"Get it." The words come out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. "Never know when you might need to attend a mob dinner."

Her eyes light up. "Are those a real thing?"

"Oh yeah," I stand, pulling out my wallet. "And the food's better."

"You don't have to?—"

"Consider it a business expense." I hand my card to the wide-eyed attendant. "Can't have you showing up to Family events looking like a politician's prop."

"Family events?" She raises an eyebrow, smoothing down the dress.

"Figure of speech." I motion for her to change back. "Hurry up, we've got more stops to make."

She disappears into the dressing room, but not before I catch her pleased smile in the mirror. Dangerous indeed.

We head out of the boutique, I'm loaded down with bags, looking like the dutiful boyfriend, or to everyone else, more like a bodyguard probably.

"Last stop," she announces, heading toward Victoria's Secret. My jaw clenches. Fuck.

I follow her in, trying to look anywhere but at the displays of lace and silk. The sales associate approaches, and I hang back, attempting to blend into the wall despite my size.

"He's with me," Tatum calls over her shoulder, already browsing through a rack of bras. "What do you think, Dom? Black or red?"

She holds up two sets of matching underwear. The black one is all delicate lace, barely there. The red... Jesus Christ. I already know she looks good in Red.

"Get the black and white." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I already know you look good in Red."

She swallows as she smiles.

"And get whatever else you may need."

She disappears into a fitting room with an armful of items while I stand guard outside, hands shoved in my pockets. The rustling of fabric and soft sighs from behind the curtain are pure torture.

"Can you hand me the navy set?" She sticks her arm out, and I pass her the hangers, my knuckles grazing her fingers.

"Everything fitting okay?" I manage to ask, keeping my tone professional.

"Perfect." There's a smile in her voice. "Though I might need a second opinion..."

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