Page 80 of Coerced Kiss
She walks to the bathroom without acknowledging my instruction and returns a few minutes later, dressed in the shamrock green frock.
I was going to tell her to grab a shawl to cover her shoulders because the evening is fresh, but words escape me as I look at her.
Fuck.
Framed with the full-length mirror at her back, she takes my breath away. The green of the dress compliments the vibrant color of her flaming red hair. The triangular top embroidered with emerald crystals wraps around her firm breasts and crisscrosses over the milky expanse of her back with spaghettistraps. The silk of the skirt fits snugly over her hips and dips with a V over the top of her ass.
She’s a fucking goddess. When I chose the dress, I envisioned how good she’d look in it, but my most vivid imagination couldn’t do the picture justice.
At my silence, uncertainty flickers in her eyes. “Is the fit too tight?” She lifts an arm and glances at her boob. “Maybe it’s too revealing.”
“No,” I say, my voice gruff. “It’s perfect.”
Turning to adjust my hard-on, I fetch the strappy green heels from the closet cubbyholes filled with shoes.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at the padded stool in the center of the dressing room.
She flops onto the seat without arguing.
I go down in front of her on one knee like a man about to propose and take her small, narrow foot in my hands. The arch of the bridge is elegant. Her toes are slender and perfectly proportioned, forming a diagonal line from the big to the small one. I brush my palm over the top and wrap my fingers around her ankle. Her bones are so small my fingers overlap. I linger for a second longer than necessary before slipping the shoe over her heel and fastening the thin strap.
When I lift my gaze to hers, she’s watching me. A frown pleats her forehead but she doesn’t voice the question that burns in her pretty eyes. She doesn’t ask what I’m doing even though I won’t mind giving her the answer. It’s simple. I’m taking care of her.
After fitting the other shoe, I straighten and get a wrap from the drawer that I drape around her shoulders. “Would you like to take a bag?”
Rachele hated carrying a bag to the club. She used to drop her lipstick in my jacket pocket when we went out. The day she started carrying a bag was the day I knew something was amiss.
Fuck that.
I’m not going to compare them. I’m an asshole, but I refuse to be that man.
Anya nods, pulling me back to the present. To her.
I get the matching green bag with the crystal detail that’s still wrapped in tissue paper. Then I wait for her to prepare the bag, watching with incurable fascination what she stuffs in there, which includes tissues, strawberry gum, her phone, and a tube of lipstick.
After pulling on my jacket, I offer her an arm and lead her downstairs. I’m mindful of her heels, slowing my step so that she can keep up and to ensure she doesn’t twist an ankle or break her neck.
“The dress and the shoes,” she says, stealing a sidelong glance at me. “They fit me.”
I flash her a smile. “Of course they do.”
She narrows her eyes. “How did you know my size?”
My smile stretches into a grin. If she’s baiting me to admit that I went through her drawers like a stalker, I don’t mind telling her the truth. “How do you think?”
“You’re despicable.” Anger taints her tone. “You could’ve asked.”
I open the front door and guide her onto the porch. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Kevin waits outside. He opens the back door of the car.
She gives me a cutting look as I help her inside.
Once I’ve buckled her in and secured my own safety belt, I tell Kevin to go. A car with bodyguards follows.
“Who knows our relationship isn’t real?” she asks as soon as the partition is up.
“Only Luigi and Giorgio. As for the rest, we’re as real as two people in love can get.”