Stripped (30 page)

“Yes…” I breathe. “Now.”

“Is that an order?” His voice is amused.
 

I nod, my cheek against the cold hood of the Bugatti. I harden my voice and put all the command into my delivery as I can, craning my neck to meet his hot hazel gaze over my shoulder. “
Now
, Dawson.”

He literally growls, and his pupils dilate. His manhood jerks and thickens. “
Fuck
me, that’s hot. You should order me around more often.”

I would, but he’s got his erection in his hand and he’s teasing my clitoris with it. His knuckles brush against my inner thighs as he moves himself, and I’m straining for stillness, waiting for him to slide into my folds.

He does, but it’s glacially
s s s s l l o o o o w w w
, an oh-so-gradual merging of bodies. “I can’t wait to call you my wife,” he murmurs, bent over me to whisper in my ear.

I moan, both at his words and his entrance into me. “Me, too. But…you already are my husband—we just haven’t said the words yet.”

He slides fully into me, hips against my flexed bottom. “True.”
 

That’s all he says, because words are beyond both of us then, for a moment. He withdraws, and slides back in. My groan is a quiet breath against the hood. And then he’s taking my hips in his big hands and pulling them, lifting me. I push up onto my hands and onto my toes, spine arched down, bent over fully. He pushes deep, and I’m screaming silently, mouth wide.
 

“Watch us, babe.”
 

I force my eyes open and down to our reflection. My breasts hang low, swaying with our quickening rhythm, and his shape is above me, tan and huge, and my skin is flushed all over, and then I move my gaze down, and I’m hypnotized by the sight of our joining. I can see it all in the reflection of the hood, his thick shaft sliding out, my folds taut and stretched to take all of him, and then he’s moving and I watch as he enters me, and my blood pumps wildly, adrenalized lust flowing through me at the erotic sight of us moving together. I squeeze with the muscles of my vagina, and he groans as my walls clamp down around his erection; I feel him swell and burgeon, and I know he’s close, know my turn is coming soon.

He’s losing his rhythm, his motions growing erratic. He grips my hip in one hand and jerks me roughly against him. I like the roughness. I love it. It’s a tender thing, counter-intuitively. The roughness of his ardor is when I love our sex the most, when he’s beyond control. His other hand cups one swaying breast and squeezes, kneads, grips, thumbs the nipple and pinches it, and he’s losing it—his eyes are closing and sweat is beading on his brow and he’s moving faster and faster.

Now. Now it’s my turn.

 
I lift up on my toes, clamping down with my walls, and crash down against him. He groans, and I do it again. I start moving against him, into his thrusts. Where before I was moving with him, in sync with him, now I meet his thrusts with my own, harder and harder.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, breathless.

He’s watching. I brace my head on my forearm on the hood of the Bugatti, lifted up onto my toes. His hands both go to my hips, and he lifts me so I’m not touching the floor with my feet at all, my head and my chest on the hood, and he pumps into me as I slide my fingers against my slick flesh.

I start to come, and he moves harder, pulling me into his thrusts, and I’m screaming, ululating, out of control, and then I feel him start to shudder, and I find my breath, remember what he said about me giving him commands.

“Say my name when you come,” I tell him. I also know he likes it when I swear, which I don’t often do, so I give him that now as well. “Say my name when you fuck me.”

He bellows, a roar of brute animalism, and he pushes deep into me. “Grey! Oh…god…Grey, my love.” He comes apart then, no rhythm, no pattern, just motion and desperation. “I love you, fuck, I love you so much.”
 

He fills me. I feel the release, a jetting spasm of wetness and heat inside me. He fucks me then. Out of control and forceful, and I meet him with a fucking rhythm of my own, milking his release, and then I come again, feeling another spasm from him as I collapse against the car and roll my hips into him, our bodies slowing and softening and going tender once more.

 
I’m limp against the mirror-silver of the Bugatti, blessedly cool against my sex-hot flesh. His manhood softens inside me, aftershocks rocking us both, quakes shivering over me, spasmodic fluttering thrusts from him that make the aftershocks in me harder.
 

He’s breathless, panting, but he pulls out of me, draws me me up and then back against his chest and kisses my temple, nibbles my earlobe, then down to my jaw and shoulder. Our skin is slick and hot and sweaty, and we’re both breathing hard, and I’ve never in my life ever been happier than in this moment. I feel taken away by true, bone-deep joy. He gives it to me, that joy, with his love. I rest my head against his shoulder, and he twists us to kiss my lips, leaving us both more breathless than ever.
 

He lifts me in his arms, effortlessly, and carries me into the house, leaving his phone and the music playing and the door to the garage open. Into the living room, and he lays me gently on the couch, opens the lid of an ottoman, and pulls out a thick, soft blanket. He slides onto the couch behind me, his spine against the back of the couch. We’re sweaty and sticky, and I love it. His softened manhood is against my backside, and we doze like that, thoughts of having him take me back there running through my head.

I want it.

I let the dirty thought float through my head:
I want his cock in my ass.
 

I almost giggle out loud at the dirty, nasty, sensual thought, but it’s too erotic to laugh at, and I’m mostly asleep, drifting and drowsing with his hand absently cupping one breast, the other wedged between us and the couch cushion.
 

When we wake up, I’ll have him take me that way.
 

Or maybe, since his birthday is coming up next week, I’ll wait until his birthday, and I’ll make a special event of it.
 

He shifts in his sleep, moving against my bottom, and I wonder, as sleep takes me, how it will feel. Like everything he does, amazing, I’m sure.
 

I’m going to be his wife.

Chapter 16

It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. Dawson is reading for a part; he’s reached the level where he rarely has to audition, but apparently the casting people and the director have a few big-name actors in mind for the role, and they need to see who’s right for it. I’m on Rodeo Drive, shopping for his birthday surprise tomorrow night. Of course, there’s a big party tonight, a swanky, glitzy thing set up by his manager, Audrey. It’s a big deal, since the who’s-who of the attendee list reads like an issue of
OK
Magazine
. It’s going to be fun, in a role-playing sort of way. I’ve done a few appearances with Dawson—none as big or dramatic as the Oscars, obviously—and each time, I feel like I have to be the glamorous, confident version of me, the arm-candy, entertaining me. I have to wear shudderingly expensive gowns and jewelry and shake hands with people like Cameron Crowe and Adam Carolla and Jennifer Lawrence. Yes, it’s exciting, but in a nerve-wracking sort of way. Especially since I’m in the business, a teeny-tiny little fish in a big, dangerous ocean. And those gowns? I spend my time worrying about about potentially ripping or staining a gown that costs as much as or more than most people’s houses are worth.

I’ve gotten the manicure and the pedicure already, and after I finish shopping, Luisa is coming over to do my hair and makeup. That—having a personal stylist—is my favorite part of being with someone as wealthy as Dawson. It’s shallow and horrible, I know, but it’s just the honest truth. The girl in me loves having someone primp and preen my hair until it’s perfect, and to do my makeup in a way that I never could. Luisa has this technique that gets my eyes just smoky enough to be sexy, but not so much that I look like someone from
Jersey Shore
, which is what I end up with if I do it myself. Luisa has tried to show me, but I just never get it right.
 

The mani-pedi every week is nice, too.
 

I won’t even mention the personal massage therapist. That would just be mean.

I step into the lingerie store Agent Provocateur, and my heart is in my throat. I’ve always bought my underwear from somewhere like Kohl’s, or, if I’ve got some extra money, Victoria’s Secret. And it’s always just basic underwear and bras. I’ve never even tried on real lingerie. The most daring undergarment I own is a backless, strapless bra that I bought for my first big night out with Dawson where I knew we’d be photographed.
 

The woman who greets me is polished and sophisticated, the picture of Rodeo Drive excellence. She’s tall, lithe, and platinum blonde. She introduces herself as Violet, which is just the most apropos thing I can imagine.
 

“Can I help you find something?” Her voice is like silk.

“I—well…” My throat is dry, and I’ve got no idea what to ask for. I don’t even know where to start. I decide to go for honesty; I’m embarrassing myself either way. I’ll probably never be able to visit this store again. “I’ve never shopped for…lingerie before. It’s my boyfr—my
fiancé’s
— birthday tomorrow, and I want to wear something to surprise him.”

She nods evenly, and her expression never changes, although I can almost smell the contempt coming from her. “I see. Buying him something extra to unwrap, hmm?”

“Something like that. He already has pretty much everything, so all I can really get him that he’ll want is…well, me.” I blush as I say it, but it’s true.

I see her expression shift slightly, and I realize she recognizes me but can’t place me. It’s weird to be recognized. “Ah, I see,” she says, looking me up and down, assessing. “You’re very tall, even in flats. A very…generous build, as well. You’re probably a D cup, but no more than a thirty-two or -four around.” She paces around to the side and examines my butt. It’s weird to be so thoroughly examined by a woman. “A four panty, most likely.” She says this in a nearly disapproving way.
 

I realize, somewhat belatedly, that she’s used to seeing petite women of a very particular size and shape come in here, and I’m not that. There’s no obvious condescension in her tone—she’s too professional for that—but there’s clear judgment. I pretend I don’t notice. She measures me, and then shows me several different kinds of lingerie, some that are full-body suits which leave most of me bare, others that are little more than complicated and lacy bra-and-panty sets. What catches my interest, though, is the corsets. There are all sorts of interesting and sexy numbers in this section, bustiers and basques and corsets, some that are sheer, some opaque, all providing lift and shaping. Not that I need lift or shaping, but still. That’s the point of lingerie, isn’t it? To accentuate and accelerate what you’ve already got?

I realize, as I browse, that the sizing here is weird. I’m a size four in their underwear, when normally, at every other store I’ve ever shopped at, I’m more of an eight or ten. I try on several different options, and settle on an item which Violet calls a “Leah corset.” It’s flesh-colored, pleats of soft fabric wrapping around and tied in the back, lifting and compressing and all-around providing enough oomph that even I can tell I look good. Dawson is going to combust.

After Violet has all the ties tugged tight and fastened, I examine myself in the mirror, and imagine his reaction. He’s…oh, my. He’s going to get that look in his eyes, the nova-hot, dangerous one, the dilated pupils and the ravenous gleam of raw lust and bone-shaking love.

“I’ll take this one,” I tell Violet.
 

I get dressed and wait by the register as she wraps the lingerie for me and rings it up. I hadn’t looked at the tag, so my throat closes when I see the number on the register screen: $1,709.25. I have to remind myself to breathe, tell myself that this is fine. I can afford this.
 

I hand her the Chase bank card Dawson opened for me. It’s in my name, drawing off his account. That’s love and trust for you right there. Giving a girl a debit card with access to millions of dollars? Good thing for him I’m not a material girl. I would never go and spend a bunch of money on diamonds and clothes and shoes. I have what I need, and if there’s something I want, it’s more fun to tell Dawson and let him buy it for me. Don’t get me wrong—I like shopping as much as the next girl, but I enjoy getting gifts from my lover more than I do buying things for myself. It’s more rewarding. Plus, I then to get to thank him in the way we both enjoy.
 

Which is why this lingerie I’m buying is really for both of us. I would never wear the corset for myself. It’s stiff and uncomfortable and confining. I feel sexy as sin in it, but it’s for him. It’s to make him need my body more than he already does, which shouldn’t be physiologically possible. And it’s for me, since after he’s looked his fill, he’ll take it off me and make me scream until the neighbors think I’m getting murdered.
 

I shiver just thinking about what I’m going to ask him to do to me.

I’m lost in thoughts of his touch and kiss as I leave the store, and I don’t spot the paparazzi until it’s too late.

“Grey, Grey, over here, Grey! What’d you get at Agent Provocateur, can you show us?”

“Grey, how did you feel about Dawson’s proposal?”

“What are you getting Dawson for his birthday? Is that what’s in the bag?”

“Are there children in the future for you and Dawson?”

I blink as flashes go off, try to breathe and keep calm and ignore the flurry of questions. And then a question is shouted that makes me panic.
 

It comes from a man in his thirties, with a long dirty-blond ponytail and a high, pimple-dotted forehead, sharp, cruel brown eyes, and an over-hanging beer belly. “Grey, is it true you used to be a stripper?”

I can’t help reacting. I know I shouldn’t, that reacting gives credence to the question, but I’m not Dawson. My eyes are drawn to the reporter asking the question. “No…no comment.” I’m faint with panic. It’s going to come out now, and it’s going to ruin Dawson’s career. And mine.