Page 8 of Captive Rival: Armani
She shows me to a fitting room area that’s furnished with a velvet covered fainting sofa, a wall of ornate antique mirrors, and a beautiful three-tier chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“Wow,” I can’t help murmuring. This place looks like a palace.
“We’ve prepared a selection of items based on your husband’s recommendations, but please let me know if I can find anything else for you,” the stylist says warmly, gesturing at a dressing room curtain that’s been pulled halfway open for me. “I’m Natalie. Just give a shout if you need me.”
“I will, and thank you so much.”
She leaves, and my eyes grow wide when I step into the dressing room and see what’s waiting there: two elegant clothing racks loaded with flimsy lingerie, baby doll nightgowns, and silky robes.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I consider my options. I am in no mood to try on sexy things for Armani. I am in no mood for any of this. I’m terrified of what’s going to happen with the Brunos, and I still can’t erase from my mind the image of those armed men who showed up during my wedding celebration. A storm is brewing, and Armani’s acting like we’re about to jet off on some sexcapade.
The curtain is suddenly pulled back and there he is, taking up space I don’t want him to take up.
“I’d appreciate some privacy,” I say coldly.
He grabs my chin and levels my eyes to his. “You know, it was cute at first, but I’m getting tired of the attitude, Candi. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were asking me to punish you.”
A delicious shiver goes over me. “What kind of punishment did you have in mind?”
His gaze drops to my lips and I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
“I’m going to help you,” he says.
Huh? “Help me w—”
But I don’t get to finish my sentence before he pushes me back against the wall. As I glare up at him, one side of his mouth pulls into a sneer.
“Help you try on some of these things,” he says. “We don’t have all day.”
“I don’t need your help,” I snap, annoyed now.
“Clearly you do.”
My nostrils flare as he proceeds to roughly undress me. I don’t bother helping whatsoever. Instead, I just stand there like a mannequin even as hot bolts of desire shoot through my body. Once I’m naked, he pulls me against him and looks down at me.
“What will you try on first?” he asks.
“I don’t care.”
He cocks a brow. “I find that hard to believe. You’re usually so opinionated.”
I suck in a breath at the sudden brush of his crisp cotton shirt against my peaked, aching nipples. He’s doing this on purpose. Humiliated by my own horniness, I turn my head so he won’t see the lust in my eyes, even as my brain silently screams at him,Kiss my neck. Grab my ass. Run your tongue and teeth over my skin. Do it.
“Black or red?” he prods.
“Black,” I murmur, unable to keep myself from giving in.
“Good girl.”
His hot breath caresses my throat as he speaks, and I let out a sigh when one of his shirt buttons scrapes my nipple, cool and hard, sending a zap of pleasure bursting through me.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
Clenching my thighs together, I breathe heavier as my anticipation grows. But instead of kissing me, he tugs something off the clothing rack and then drops to one knee before me. He nudges my right leg until I lift my foot, then slides something over it, then does the same on the other side, finally pulling a pair of black satin and lace panties up over my hips.
“How do they feel?” he asks, looking up at me.
It takes all my willpower not to grab his head and shove it between my thighs. “Fine.”
