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“Better?” He chuckles.
“God, yes,” I practically sob, my eyes slipping closed as each stroke of his fingers elicits a more enthusiastic moan from me. “Don’t get any ideas,” I chastise. “I still hate you.”
“I have no misconceptions about that in the slightest, princess.”
“I hate when you call me that.” One of my eyes cracks open to look at him, allowing me to convey my irritation, though this only seems to please him further.
“I’m aware.” He shakes his head with a carefree smile, one that seems surprisingly genuine for an expression that’s typically foreign to him. This moment feels too easy between us, and while it should serve to put me at ease, it has the opposite effect.
I’m able to slip free of his hold with a few calculated shakes. Though to be fair, Nicky doesn’t fight me. He allows me to step back, albeit awkwardly due to my limited range of motion, and as he looks down, his features turn sullen with a grimace.
In one fluid motion, Nicky’s arm wraps around my waist, whisking us into an adjacent corridor away from the prying eyes of the ballroom. Before I’m able to gain my bearings and protest, he’s dropping me down and lowering to his knees.
The sharp intake of my breath cuts through the silence of the dimly lit hallway, followed by the distinct sound of a switchblade snapping open. I freeze, my palms lowering to brace against his strong shoulders.
“N-Nicky?” My voice trembles, my breaths coming in rapid succession when I feel the warmth of his hands reaching under the hem of my gown.
“Don’t move,” he commands as he tugs the flared portion away from my shins, pulling it taut. My curiosity quickly shifts to panic when the sounds of fabric tearing fill the space.
“Are you ripping my dress?!”
“I said, Don’t. Move. Unless you want me to nick you.”
My body stills, fighting back a shiver when the sudden warmth of his skin presses against mine. Nicky’s palm slowly slides up the length of my right leg, traveling higher and higher until his fingertips come dangerously close to juncture where my thigh meets my core. He pauses mere centimeters from my center, lingering briefly before curving his hand around my inner thigh with a possessive squeeze. His grip tightens, bordering on the precipice of pain, but I can’t bring myself to push him away.
This is dangerous. The hallway we’ve chosen offers limited cover with nothing to prevent anyone else from wandering in to find us in this compromising position. All it would take is one of these Real Housewife wannabes to catch a glimpse of us right now, and I’d never hear the end of the rumors. Call me crazy, but if people are going to talk shit about me, I’d prefer it be factual in nature. I was serious when I said I intended to be loyal to my future husband, regardless of whether he’s extending the same courtesy to me or not.
I’m not proud to admit that in my teenage years, I made quite a few regrettable notches in my bedpost. The number is not what bothers me—fuck society and the public persecution of female sexuality, thank you very much—but rather, the individuals. My taste in men tends to be downright atrocious. I swear, if there isn’t a chance they won’t ghost me, mind-fuck me, or emotionally belittle me, then I’m not attracted to them. I don’t have it in me to re-enter the cesspool that is the dating world.
Luc may not be perfect, but in our world, there’s far worse to be had. Yes, he cheats and thinks he’s superior, but that’s no different than most of the men I grew up around. From what I’ve observed, it tends to be the norm. The only real exception I can call to mind is Nicky’s father.
Mitch Conners loves his wife with everything he is. He would cut his dick off before he’d ever use it to cheat. Man’s a damn unicorn in the realm of husbands.
I’m happy to know that kind of love exists for some people; it’s just not in the cards for me. However, I focus on the positives. Luc is professionally driven, and while he works for his father, he’s far from lazy. He is affectionate and has never forgotten a birthday or anniversary. While we do fight, he’s never hit me. And then there’s the fact that we’re sexually compatible.
While the list may not be fairytale material, it’s enough that I can compromise. I want kids one day, and while I would have preferred Luc waited a bit longer before proposing, in the end, there was ultimately no reason to delay the inevitable.
If I wasn’t going to get to marry for love, then practicality seemed like the next best thing.
Nicky shifts, flipping the hand beneath my dress so his palm is flush against the fabric, while the back of his hand rests against the front of my right thigh. I glance down in the darkness, the light from the adjacent ballroom glinting off the steel of his blade as he begins to carefully cut through the fabric.
With the utmost precision, he drags the knife down the length of my leg, his other hand ensuring all the while the metal never touches my skin. When he reaches just below my knees, the resistance gives way to the bottom section he already sliced open.
“There.” He stands up, pocketing his switchblade as he eyes his handywork. “Much better.”
I angle my body toward the light, gasping at the sight of the high slit that now runs the full length of my right leg. The cut is precise, with no visible frayed edges. The knife he carries must be razor-sharp to achieve such results, and the fact he was able to execute such a flawless incision without so much as grazing me speaks to his level of skill with a blade.
Jesus, is there anything this man can’t do?
If nothing else, it’s a million times easier to move in.
“Thank you.” I offer a single gratuitous nod, glancing awkwardly around while he makes no effort to fill the increasingly uncomfortable growing silence. Even when quiet, Nicky dominates the space. His presence is borderline overpowering and has me rushing back to the party before I do something I massively regret.
He follows, refusing to grant me an ounce of reprieve. Desperate to escape him, I stop to scan the crowd for someone I can attach myself to, only to be reminded there’s no one here I like enough to interact with. Except for…
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
Nicky assumes a casual stance, placing his hands in the pockets of his black dress pants. The movement shifts the fabric of his tuxedo jacket, catching the light and highlighting the faint damask skull pattern woven into the material. Nicky’s dramatic sense of fashion has calmed quite a bit over the years, so the subtle homage to his unique style has me fighting back a smirk.
