Page 43 of Brutal Revenge

Sounds like a good deal to me.

“Matteo,” Azra calls out, voice strained. “Can you come here… please?”

I grin as if she hasn’t shot down every offer I’ve made to fasten the zippers. I picked them specifically because she shouldn’t be able to reach the fasteners.

She must have extremely long arms, because in the past two hours, she hasn’t called me once to assist.

“What’s wrong? Need myspecialhelp?”

“Just get in here,” she snaps, doubling my grin.

I push the curtain aside and step inside. Azra stands in the backof the oversized changing room, face red with embarrassment. Dress ten is stuck around her stomach, hiding her hourglass figure with a racy red material. No matter how much she tugs, it won’t go up or down.

She looks like a very furious, very trapped caterpillar.

“How did you even get it on?”

“Don’t,” she warns, glaring at me. “Just help me.”

“I’ll get the shop assistant.”

“No!” she blurts, eyes wide. “Please don’t. I’m embarrassed enough.”

“Of what? Looking hot as fuck in mismatched panties and bra?” I step closer. “Are they printed cotton panties?” I bite the edge of my palm to muffle my moan. “Fuck me,micina. There’s something wickedly hot about cotton panties, especially when they’re dirty?—”

“Matteo!” she cuts in, her breathing quiet and desperate, like my filthy words shadowed the front of said panties. “Please… get it off. I don’t care how.”

I almost shake my head, the visual too enticing to disrupt, but the fact that she trusts me enough to ask for help stops me. She could have called in the store clerk, who’s been eye-fucking me from afar since we arrived, and I would have missed the opportunity to confirm that her body is as rocking as my deviant head has conjured multiple times over the past twenty-four hours.

Fuck me, she’s gorgeous.

“Okay.” I step behind her. “Hold still.”

She does.

For once.

I dig through the fabric, seeking the zipper. It’s nowhere to be found.

“Where the fuck is the zipper?”

Azra groans. “It’s in the front.” She waits for me to face her before admitting, “I’ve been zipping the dresses in the front and then twisting them around.” When I smile, she throws her fist into my stomach. “It was no easy feat. Every dress you’ve picked isskintight.”

“As it should be,” I murmur, eyeing the material bunched under her tits.

Even after I bust the zipper, the dress refuses to budge. It clings to her as if it has a personal vendetta to make her pay.

Azra mutters under her breath, “This is humiliating.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“I could have made out the dresses you picked were hot and acted clueless when Antonio screwed his nose up at them.”

Again, she groans. “True. I guess.”

Under her watchful gaze, I keep working the fabric inch by inch, trying not to laugh at how utterly done she looks.