Page 51 of Splintered Desire

His voice is hard, but it doesn't rise; the way he says my name gives me goosebumps.

“Whatever.” I toss my hands up and turn toward the curtain and the obscene amount of dresses, no longer willing to waste my time arguing with him to leave. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“I want to see each dress,” Isaac calls as I pull the curtain closed. I bite my tongue against telling him where he can shove that want.

It’s just a fucking dress; you can do this, Zela!

I don’t even sound convincing in my mind, but I push away my annoyance to deal with later, when I’m not about to strip down in a locked room with my stepbrother.

Now I know why I don’t own a dress.

How can one little slip of fabric be so damn annoying?

Holes, straps, slits, buttons, zippers, sheer materials, and built-in bras—a fucking nightmare.

“If you plan to dig an escape tunnel, know that this wall leads to the store next door, not outside.” I hear the amusement in Isaac’s voice, and I huff in annoyance.

Asshole.

“If I were to dig my way out, anywhere would do to be away from you,” I snap back before groaning in frustration.

“Do you need help?”

I finally manage to pull the dress over my head and start to get it sorted when he asks, and I roll my eyes.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to get fucked, but I snap my mouth closed before I can because, of course, this dress has a zipper, and not just any zipper but one that goes down, damn near to my ass.

Every dress is black, which is about the only thing I feel grateful for. This one is long, almost to the point where I’d need heels so it doesn’t drag, but not the kind that would break my neck, another point.

It’s not even zipped up yet, but I can tell it’s going to hug me like a second skin. The top is kind of like a corset minus the ties, and despite having no real boobs to speak of, I somehow have a little bit of cleavage.

Huh, that’s new, but I don’t hate it. I wonder how it will look zipped.

The straps are thin spaghetti straps, and the fabric of the whole dress is almost sheer, bordering on see-through.

Holy shit!

For a second, I worry I’d ripped the dress, but nope, I think that was done on purpose. A slit runs up my leg, high enough that it’s almost inappropriate.

I’ll need to take extra care to cover any bruises because this thing doesn’t hide shit.

I manage to get the zipper about halfway up before I groan in annoyance and fling the curtain open. I refuse to waste more time over a stupid zipper.

Isaac sits in the chair right where I left him, one leg folded so that his ankle rests on his knee. His phone in his hand, probably doomscrolling to pass the time, before his eyes flick up to me.

There’s no mirror inside the curtain, but most of this room is covered in them. Even still, I haven’t seen myself in the dress I just fought tooth and nail to get on.

Judging by the way Isaac’s gaze drags up my body like a physical caress, I’d say it’s not ugly, though. I stop dead, trapped in his gaze, and when his eyes finally find their way to mine, my breath catches, seeing the way his eyes devour me, his pupils blown wide.

Neither of us moves, unwilling or unable to break the hold in the moment before I finally manage to get ahold of myself again.

DuPont men are bad news, Zela.

I know this, but it would seem my pussy can’t get past the handsome bad boy thing.

“The zipper.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder before I turn and, despite my better judgment, give him my back.

It wasn’t a question, but thankfully it didn’t need to be.