Page 60 of Bought
I try on dresses I’d never touch otherwise. Lace, silk, slinky numbers that hug every curve. Each time I step out of the fitting room, his eyes darken like he’s about to drag me into a closet and make me forget how to walk.
By the time we leave, he’s carrying more bags than I can count, and I’m blushing furiously.
He holds every door. Kisses me at every red light. Wraps an arm around my waist like I belong to him. And every time he says something like, ‘You’re mine now,’ I believe him even more.
And I trust him. But not enough to tell him the truth. Not yet.
Because no matter how many times he tells me I’m his, he won’t want me when he knows how he came to meet me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lucian
Driving my favorite convertible with the top down, engine humming beneath me, Erin beside me, it feels damn close to happiness. That elusive word I’ve never trusted. But maybe, just maybe, I’m brushing against the edges of it now, with her laughter on the breeze, her dark hair whipping across her cheeks, the adorable oversized sunglasses resting on that exquisite face.
The sunglasses I bought, like the deep green dress with a delicate floral pattern she wears, the gold necklace that gleams against her skin, the matching gold hoops, the leather boots with heels that make her legs look like sin.
Every inch of her right now is dressed in what I picked. And that shouldn’t turn me on the way it does, but fuck, it does. I love control, and I love that she wants me in charge.
Shopping with her was fun.
A simple word. One I’ve never truly used with sincerity before. But watching her light up, hesitantly picking clothes off racks,asking me to choose, it affected me. So much so that brunch this morning turned into a detour back to Posh, where I told her to pick anything she wanted.
Everything.
I grabbed the boots.
If she hadn’t been untouched before me, I would’ve hated the idea of other hands touching her, other arms holding her, other eyes watching her—gifts from other men. I would’ve destroyed every piece of fabric any other man had ever touched.
I’m the first, but more than that, I want to be the last.
The only.
And that thought unsettles me.
She turns to me, trying to hold her hair down against the wind. “Ryan’s going to try to talk me into two scoops, but he’s only three and still has to eat dinner.”
That soft, maternal edge in her voice kills me. It’s so far from the world I come from.
“I don’t know shit about kids,” I say, watching her mouth curl into a smirk. “I’ll leave the negotiations to you.”
“Cass is the weak one,” she says with a teasing lilt. “I don’t have a problem enforcing bedtime or sugar limits. But Ryan can be persuasive.”
I smirk. “Little man got the Cabriolet out of the garage. That kid’s not just persuasive—he’s got the instincts of a shark. I stroke the dash with affection. “This baby is the most coveted of the vintage Ferraris.”
She glances into the back seat. “Will he even appreciate it? He’s three.”
“He’s got a Y chromosome. It’s in his blood.”
She laughs, lifting her sunglasses to perch atop her head. “My hair is going to have serious volume for dinner tonight.”
“And you’ll be the most beautiful woman in the room.” My hand slides over her thigh, fingers possessive. “After last night,” and after this morning, twice, “it’s going to be impossible to keep my hands off you.”
She catches my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “I want to make a good impression.”
“You will,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Just by walking in the door.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she looks at me again, lips parted. “How are we going to say we met?”
