Page 29 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
My steps falter. “And why is that?”
“Because you need to change into another one of your stolen dresses. I’ve decided to take you to dinner.”
My mind reels. He’sdecided. It sounds so damn insulting that I puff up instantly incensed. And at the same time, it seems so damn intriguing. So damn…commanding. First spanking. Now, this. The man is insane.
But damn, I may love it.
“I don’t remember agreeing to anything of the sort?” I crane my neck to eye him from over my shoulder.
And I instantly regret it. Holy crap. His eyes blaze, a muscle in his throat jerking freely.
“You’ll come,” he says. That’s it. As if he’s so damn sure I wouldn’t dare refuse. It’s only when he finally deigns to eye his watch that I realize I’ve stood here all this time, gaping at him open-mouthed. “I’ll give you an hour to change,” he says as though bestowing some precious gift upon me. “Wear something I haven’t seen you in before. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“You are so full of shit,” I blurt incredulously.
He merely inclines his head as if considering the phrase. “I’ve filled you as well,” he finally counters in that deep, relentless murmur. “But it wasn’t with shit, was it?”
My mouth falls open even wider, and I have to make a mental note to close it. Turning on my heel, I storm for the main lobby. Before decorum can rob me of the gall, I stick up my middle finger in a princess-style wave as I go. “Fuck off, Vadim.”
But damn him. The way he said filled. It does strange things to my head and conjures dangerous, explicit memories. Like him swelling inside me on the verge of release—and then the eventual sensation of being flooded by him. Consumed by him.
Chapter Eleven
Isway on my way into an elevator, and I nearly run into the suite in a desperate bid to escape thoughts of him. Dinner, he says? Hell no. I’m going to pack for my flight, order a million wake up calls, and do whatever it takes to ensure that I make it on time. I’m going to…
Scream and race out of the room as if electrocuted. My heart pounds as I warily tiptoe back inside, unwilling to believe my eyes.
My first coherent thought is that the bastard stalled me on purpose, knowing all along that someone was in my room unloading boxes upon boxes placed throughout the master suite. A stack lies before the bed and more dominate the glass dining table by the window. Not just any boxes either, but a classic, iconic black box wrapped in signature white ribbon…
Chanel. So much Chanel that I fear I’m hallucinating.Obsceneamounts of Chanel. He must have spent a literal fortune. Either that or he’s playing a sick, awful joke at my expense.
So, of course, it’s the latter.
Sighing, I fight to control any excitement that may be bubbling beneath my skin as I approach the nearest stack and lift one of the boxes. It’s heavy enough to prove that it’s not filled with air, at least. But when I peek inside…
I sink to my knees and wind up cooing over the most beautiful purse I’ve ever seen. It matches the ebony dress I discover next. And a pair of similar shoes, and then a collection of delicate jewelry. Jackets. More shoes. More purses.
And then it clicks. The bastard bought the spring collection. The most iconic, eye-catching pieces, to boot. Gosh, just last month, I’d drooled over the lineup, trying to talk myself into flirting with bankruptcy just to buy a single purse. Maybe a pair of shoes?
In person, every piece is more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. All I can do is strip my black dress and try on a new, light pink one with worshiping reverence. In a daze, I discover a full-length mirror on the closet door, and I admire myself from every angle.
Then I try on another ensemble. And another. Another.
It quickly becomes apparent that he didn’t settle for just teasing me with a few new dresses. He bought entire outfits down to the last finishing detail. I recognize more than half from the runway, and something he said to me echoes in my brain as I model yet another gorgeous dress—wear somethingdifferent,he commanded me in reference to his dinner.
The bastard.
I get lost in the task of trying to find which dress—of many—I’m aching to test drive first. The pink? The blue? An innocent sheer white?
I’m barely halfway through my options when the door to the suite opens, and a lanky, smug bastard strolls in.
“How did I know that this would be the cause of your delay?” He gestures to the mess of tissue paper and cardboard coating nearly every inch of the floor. His neutral expression doesn’t quite match the surliness conveyed by his tone. He’s not entirely angry, just amused.
And what he said finally registers in my brain.Delay?
Only now do I realize that it’s nearly pitch-black outside. I’d turned on a few lights to better illuminate the details of each garment, so I barely noticed. Concerning his dinner date, I’m about four hours too late.
I try to apologize, I think, but all I manage to muster is a pained groan as I model another black dress and promptly fall in love. Thinking quickly, I skip through the minefield of clothing and grab a checkered style boy bag from the chaos. When slung over my shoulder, it completes the outfit so perfectly I gasp, and my eyes roll back into my head.
