I should have known, by the way he looked at me.
By the way his eyes glazed over the dress and went right back to his phone. It should have been obvious, but I wanted desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt, to give him one last chance.
I had twirled in front of him, the green silk of my new dress sliding over my skin and dripping off the curve of my hips. Bias cut, tight in all the right places, loose enough to give a tease of movement. I loved that dress. It made me feel sexy, powerful, confident.
And he couldn’t even spare me a second glance. I sighed. There was a new, aching tightness in my chest, as I watched his eyes fall back to his phone screen.
I should have known, right then.
The text came while I was at the party. Of course. While I was holding a glass of champagne, chatting with my colleagues and celebrating our successful new production. He never did like going to these kinds of things with me. I was used to going alone, at that point. My phone chimed.
I can’t do this anymore. We’re done.
I stared at the message for a long time, the seconds dilating around me. The murmur of the other party guests was like white noise in my head, swallowed up by the dimness of the restaurant. Seven little words, and ten years of my life was over, just like that. A thousand thoughts swirled in my brain, a thousand messages I could write back. In the end, though, I typed the only thing that I really could: Okay.
I walked over to the bar with green silk trailing behind me and slid into a barstool. “Two tequila, neat.”
The bartender turned and looked at me, pinning me with the most striking silver eyes I had ever seen.
I tipped my head to the side as he poured, trying to decide if they were real, or simply good contacts.
He smiled as he placed the two shot glasses in front of me, those pools of swirling mercury turning into amused crescents, as if he knew what I was thinking.
I downed the two shots, one after another, treasuring the burn as the liquid slid down my throat. The liquor sat heavy on top of the champagne, but I welcomed the buzzed-out bliss of inebriation. I took a deep breath as the edges of my world became fuzzy and numb.
“Who broke your heart?” he asked.
I blushed. “My husband, after ten years. Over a goddamn text.”
“That’s rough.” He poured two more shots and placed one of them in front of me. As I picked it up, he clinked the second against it and downed it, himself.
I watched the muscles of his body move, as I mirrored him. The third shot didn’t burn as much as the first two, and I was almost sad about it. The sounds of the party died around me, as my focus narrowed to the man in front of me. I studied the muscles of his arms, the way his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
I wondered what those hands would feel like on my body.
“It’s a shame when a beautiful woman isn’t appreciated.”
It took me a moment to register what he had said, to tear myself out of my head – and the forbidden thoughts I was entertaining.
I smiled at him, remembering to drop my gaze demurely.
When I looked back up at him, I could swear there was something there that hadn’t been, a moment before. It was the set of his jaw, the hardness of his posture. Whatever it was, it made my heart beat a little faster.
“Stand up for me.” His tone left no room for argument.
And strangely, I didn’t want to argue with him. There was something about him that just made me want to obey.
To submit.
Had I been more sober, I might have blushed at this thought, but right then, I simply let myself fall into that feeling of quiet submission.
I stood up.
His pale eyes roamed over my body, drinking in every detail. “Spin, slowly. Show me the dress.”
Now I did blush. I made a circle, careful not to trip in my stilettos, giving him a view of every detail of the dress.
“Beautiful.” He drew in a breath, audibly.
I thought of my husband – ex-husband, I supposed, now – who hadn’t even bothered to give me a cursory glance, earlier. There was a sinking worthlessness in my chest, as I remembered.
It wasn’t a surprise. It had been years coming. I knew that.
Still, I looked at the man who now studied me, and I turned to show him the bare line of my back and the curve of my ass. There was some pitiful desperation there, but I wasn’t ready to examine it. I wanted to bathe in this man’s powerful attention, and let it fill me. “Do you want to be the last man to see me in this dress?”
He crossed his arms in front of himself, and I nearly swooned. “What do you mean?”
“You like the dress?”
He nodded, but his eyes did not waver from my face. “I do.”
“Then make sure that no other man ever sees me in it.” I wasn’t sure where these words bubbled up from, but as they poured from my lips, I realized I wanted just that: to be owned, possessed. Everything that I had been missing for a decade. Passion and power and possession, from a man. Even for a moment, a night, I wanted to feel beautiful and powerfully wanted.
I wanted him to rip the dress off of me and fuck me senseless.
A ghost of a smile crawled across his lips, as if he could, again, read my thoughts. He turned to the other bartender at the opposite end of the bar. “Trev, I’m going to take a break.”
Trev simply nodded, slinging a towel over his shoulder while attending to the other customers.
He slipped out from behind the bar and slid his arm into the crook of my elbow. “My name is Alejandro.” And then, softly, against my ear, he added, “It would be my pleasure to divest you of this beautiful dress.”
His pleasure. The word echoed in my mind, as goosebumps washed over my skin. My nipples puckered, and I knew they would be obvious under the silk. His pleasure.
Everything that I had been missing, everything that I was so desperate for, all wrapped up in those two small words. I nodded, shakily. “Yes, please.”
“So polite,” he said, his tone taking on a teasing lilt, as he walked us out the back door.
It was a fourth-floor fire escape, and the heat of the night was oppressive and heavy, still in the way that midsummer could be.
The trill of cicadas thrummed from the trees below us, punctuated by the sound of traffic and people. The air smelled like rain.
He ran his hands down my arms, looking down at me. “Say it again.” His hand found my wrist and tightened.
My breath caught, and my voice was barely a whisper. “Make sure you’re the last man to see me in this dress.”
His grip tightened, while his other hand came up to toy with the delicate hem along the neckline. “Again.”
It was hard not to lean into his light touch. “Please rip this dress off of me.” My breath sounded positively ragged. “Strip me. Use me.” And then, quieter, I added, “Make me scream your name. Use me, fuck me.” I blushed at the filthy begging words that spilled from my mouth.
There was a feral growl from his throat, and it made my shiver. He grabbed both my wrists and pressed me against the brick of the building, holding my wrists above me with one hand. He leaned in, almost close enough to kiss, his lips not quite touching mine. “Again. I want to hear it again.” His hot breath teased my lips, and it was an effort not to close the distance between us and kiss him.
“Please. Take me. Use me. Rip this dress off.” I looked up at him. “Possess me.”
He pressed his body against mine, his hold on me painfully tight. The power of him was unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I wanted to feel it spill all over my skin, inside me, fill me up. I needed it, and I hadn’t realized I’d needed it, until just this moment.
“Possess you?” His voice was low and dark. “Is that what you need?”
I nodded. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”
I watched his fingers grab the neckline of the dress. “The dress is beautiful, and you are beautiful in it.” In one swift motion, he pulled downward. The sound of ripping fabric seemed to be magnified with every nuance of power and meaning between us. The silk fell away from my breasts, baring them to his gaze, as a predatory noise vibrated through his body. “But the memory of you, in it, will always belong to me.”
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