Chapter One
You know you've found the right dress when your husband looks at you like the reason you're dressed up in the first place is irrelevant...because all he wants to do is tear off your clothing.
I flexed my toes on the hardwood floor and did a 'Here I am!' gesture, complete with a ta-da. The only magic trick or thing of wonder and amazement was that behind this designer dress and makeup, I was still awkward ol' me and Jacob, my Jacob, my everything, still looked at me like it was the first time. Like it was impossible for me not to take his breath away.
His tie was bunched in his fist, his shirt hanging deliciously unbuttoned in the front and he could care less. I wasn't complaining. I ate him up, one sexy spoonful at a time. I started with the flash of silver on his belt buckle. I knew that glimmer, the way the light danced across the metal as he slid it through the hooks and folded it in half. My breathing quickened when his fingers brushed the buckle and my eyes caught the bulge of his arousal, pulsing and hardening. I continued my journey upward, drawn to the tease of his abs.
I wanted him to tell me to take off my clothes. I wanted him to rip my dress to shreds.
But he just watched me, brushing against the edge of what could have been before he retreated. He flashed a small, chaste smile. “You look beautiful, Leila.”
So I just turned on my heels and did my own retreat, returning to the dressing room.
I knew what would come next. He’d ask a question that had become the most grating question I’d ever heard: Are you okay? And even though the answer was as close to yes as I’d ever been and probably ever would be, just shy of some peace with what had happened to me, to us, I’d say the words : Yes, Jacob, I’m okay . Then his blue eyes would stop churning, the waves freezing over. Whether that moment lasted for a second, or a minute or two, I’d know that Cole and Brittany had taken something from us that we may never get back. The trust was broken--he didn’t believe me when I said I was okay, and I didn’t believe him when he said that he was okay either. The only thing we seemed to be on the same page about was tha t w e weren’t okay.
The old Jacob, my Dom, would have taken me over his knee for showing him my body, then leaving before I was dismissed. The way we navigated through our D/s world was fluid, but I always knew when we’d slipped into those roles. And I certainly hadn’t shown him the dress so he could give me the obligatory ‘It looks nice, dear’.
I stared at my reflection. The soft, crimson material skimmed my curves in a flattering, enticing way, but looking at my body in the dress just reminded me that I wanted to ge t ou t of the dress, so I shot back up to my face.
I used to hide behind my curls, relentlessly trying to tame them until I realized that there was beauty in the wildness. I let go and I saw the me that Jacob saw, unruly locks and all. There was a graceful kink in the way my curls hung around my face. But I didn't want to be graceful or presentable. I wanted disarray; I wanted locks thrown to and fro while Jacob and I got lost in each other.
The floor creaked behind me and I couldn't help but hope that this time, he'd prove me wrong. I didn't have it in me to look into his eyes and see that painful worry, so I just nestled my chin against my shoulder. Usually that annoying question came without prompting, but he didn't say a word.
“Isn't this the part where you ask me if I'm okay, I say yes, then we continue about our business?” I sniped.
My hand flew to my mouth like I could somehow stifle the words before they did more harm than good. Muffle the barbed wire that my frustration wrapped around every syllable. It was too little, too late for that...my words rang out loud and clear.
“No,” his voice smoldered. “This is the part where I stop letting you get away with murder.”
My eyes flew to his, daring to hope, but not letting myself get too
You know you've found the right dress when your husband looks at you like the reason you're dressed up in the first place is irrelevant...because all he wants to do is tear off your clothing.
I flexed my toes on the hardwood floor and did a 'Here I am!' gesture, complete with a ta-da. The only magic trick or thing of wonder and amazement was that behind this designer dress and makeup, I was still awkward ol' me and Jacob, my Jacob, my everything, still looked at me like it was the first time. Like it was impossible for me not to take his breath away.
His tie was bunched in his fist, his shirt hanging deliciously unbuttoned in the front and he could care less. I wasn't complaining. I ate him up, one sexy spoonful at a time. I started with the flash of silver on his belt buckle. I knew that glimmer, the way the light danced across the metal as he slid it through the hooks and folded it in half. My breathing quickened when his fingers brushed the buckle and my eyes caught the bulge of his arousal, pulsing and hardening. I continued my journey upward, drawn to the tease of his abs.
I wanted him to tell me to take off my clothes. I wanted him to rip my dress to shreds.
But he just watched me, brushing against the edge of what could have been before he retreated. He flashed a small, chaste smile. “You look beautiful, Leila.”
So I just turned on my heels and did my own retreat, returning to the dressing room.
I knew what would come next. He’d ask a question that had become the most grating question I’d ever heard: Are you okay? And even though the answer was as close to yes as I’d ever been and probably ever would be, just shy of some peace with what had happened to me, to us, I’d say the words : Yes, Jacob, I’m okay . Then his blue eyes would stop churning, the waves freezing over. Whether that moment lasted for a second, or a minute or two, I’d know that Cole and Brittany had taken something from us that we may never get back. The trust was broken--he didn’t believe me when I said I was okay, and I didn’t believe him when he said that he was okay either. The only thing we seemed to be on the same page about was tha t w e weren’t okay.
The old Jacob, my Dom, would have taken me over his knee for showing him my body, then leaving before I was dismissed. The way we navigated through our D/s world was fluid, but I always knew when we’d slipped into those roles. And I certainly hadn’t shown him the dress so he could give me the obligatory ‘It looks nice, dear’.
I stared at my reflection. The soft, crimson material skimmed my curves in a flattering, enticing way, but looking at my body in the dress just reminded me that I wanted to ge t ou t of the dress, so I shot back up to my face.
I used to hide behind my curls, relentlessly trying to tame them until I realized that there was beauty in the wildness. I let go and I saw the me that Jacob saw, unruly locks and all. There was a graceful kink in the way my curls hung around my face. But I didn't want to be graceful or presentable. I wanted disarray; I wanted locks thrown to and fro while Jacob and I got lost in each other.
The floor creaked behind me and I couldn't help but hope that this time, he'd prove me wrong. I didn't have it in me to look into his eyes and see that painful worry, so I just nestled my chin against my shoulder. Usually that annoying question came without prompting, but he didn't say a word.
“Isn't this the part where you ask me if I'm okay, I say yes, then we continue about our business?” I sniped.
My hand flew to my mouth like I could somehow stifle the words before they did more harm than good. Muffle the barbed wire that my frustration wrapped around every syllable. It was too little, too late for that...my words rang out loud and clear.
“No,” his voice smoldered. “This is the part where I stop letting you get away with murder.”
My eyes flew to his, daring to hope, but not letting myself get too
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