Page 82 of Lucas
What’s this?
I yank the hanger out, holding the garment up to the light. It’s more lingerie than a dress—a micro mini in dazzling silver, the hem grazing the curve of my rear. The plunging neckline dips scandalously low, promising a peek at the slopes of my breasts if I so much as inhale too deeply.
No, this has to be a joke. The stylist must have been smoking something and tossed this in by mistake because there’s no charity gala or cocktail party in existence that I could wear such a slutty dress to without causing a riot. Shaking my head, I rehang the sparkly atrocity.
Then again...
I could wear this to a party. I wouldn’t even stand out there. Maybe, for once, I could look like I belong. Like I’m fun and sexy instead of a stuck-up prude.
Decision made, I take a long, leisurely shower, shaving and moisturizing every inch of my body until my skin gleams like satin. I sweep my hair up into a tousled updo, a few wispy curls teasing my neck. With a steady hand, I apply sultry makeup—smokey eyeshadow to make my eyes pop and a swipe of crimson lipstick for my pouty lips. I step into the scandalous dress, the metallic fabric hugging my every curve like a second skin.
I pause in front of the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the vixen staring back at me with lidded bedroom eyes. I look sexy and daring, like a different woman. The golden tan I earned from my walks glows against the icy paleness of the dress, emphasizing my toned legs and arms.
It’s not my style, and even when I’ve dressed revealingly before, there was always something elegant about the garment. Still, I have to admit, I love the confident, sensual creature reflected back at me. She looks ready to hit the town and break some hearts at a wild, champagne-soaked party.
Slipping my feet into strappy heels that make my legs look a mile long, I blow my reflection a cheeky kiss for courage before going out.
I make my way down the hallway, trying to avoid running into Lucas on my way out.
It’s late, and he’s usually closed off in his man cave wing at this hour, brooding over spreadsheets and swirling a glass of expensive Scotch. I think I’m in the clear as I reach the grand foyer, darting a furtive glance around the corner.
All clear.
I lengthen my stride, the front door in my sights, freedom beckoning?—
“Ava.”
I freeze on the spot, my heart stuttering and sinking.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
I stretch my lips into a smile and turn to face him.
Lucas looms before me, all six foot two inches of pure masculinity, his white dress shirt half-unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing slice of tanned chest and abs. He’s rolled the sleeves up his muscular forearms, and my gaze lingers on the corded veins before traveling down to his powerful thighs encased in tailored navy trousers. His feet are bare, his hair tousled like he’s been yanking on it. He has a cut-glass tumbler of amber liquid clutched in one hand.
“Lucas.” I incline my head.
He doesn’t return my smile, his sensual lips pressed in agrim line. “Where are you going?” Each word is precise and sharp, like an interrogation.
“To a party at Michelle’s.”
“Like that?” His eyes narrow to slits.
“What do you mean ‘like that’?”
“That dress. It’s not you.” His nostrils flare as he takes in the skintight mini, his gaze simmering with an emotion I can’t quite place. Anger? Disgust? Jealousy?
I cross my arms over my chest, jutting my chin out. “And how would you know what’s me? You don’t know the real me at all. Besides, your stylist bought this dress. It was in my closet, so I figured it’s okay to wear.”
“I don’t know why she bought that dress.” Lucas sets his glass down on the console table with a thunk, the honey-hued liquid sloshing up the sides. “You’re not leaving the house in this dress.”
“I can, and I will.” I paste on a vindictive smirk, even as my knees tremble under his forbidding scowl. “Watch me.” I turn to leave.
Lucas closes the distance between us in a split second, he grabs my arm, spins me around and presses me back against the wall, his hands pinning me in place on either side. The spicy, woodsy scent of his cologne invades my nostrils.
“No, you’re not.”
My pulse kicks up a notch, anger and arousal warring for dominance. I straighten my spine, glaring right back at him even as I quake inside. “You. Don’t. Own. Me,” I say, enunciating each word. “This sham marriage doesn’t give you the right to dictate my clothing choices or how I spend my free time.”
