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“I would have found you,” he drawls a moment before his lips find mine. The kiss is light and sweet, and I realize he’s still comforting me. This isn’t a prelude to sex. He’s not kissing me to claim me or to mark his territory in front of Kip. He’s kissing me to make me feel better, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Is this just another way we’re using one another, more quid pro quo?
I kiss him back because I’m an idiot and because I just don’t seem to be able to help myself. Pressing myself against him, I let him comfort me because I want this. I want to believe that he’s not using me, that this isn’t all a lie. Right now, he and the guys are the closest thing to friends I’ve ever had, and even though it’s foolhardy, I’m allowing myself to cling to them and believe that I might not be pretending after all.
The kiss stays soft and slow for several moments, but Gulliver must sense it when my body starts to crave more because his hands change from holding me to gripping me. His muscles tense, and his lips against mine become more intense and demanding. When his palm slips down my back to my butt, half lifting me so I can feel the way his dick has hardened, I don’t push him away. Instead, I slide my hand around the back of his neck and hold on, running my nails over his nape, heat scorching through my veins as he slowly teases my body to life.
Kip clears his throat. “Er, guys, I’m still sitting over here,” he says, his tone half amused, half…annoyed?
Gulliver reluctantly pulls away from my lips but keeps his hand on my ass. “I know you’re still there, asshole. I was hoping you’d take the hint and leave so I could play with my girl a little before we go out,” he says, chuckling darkly.
“You’re going out?” I ask.
“We’re going out. All of us.”
“I can’t,” I instantly reply.
“Yeah, you can. Yolanda is on her way back, and Fitzy is bringing you some outfits to try. Tonight’s the opening night for the club in the new Marshall Hotel. The guest list is exclusive, and we’re all on it. It’s time to stop hiding, Little Ghost,” he says, with a satisfied smirk on his full lips and a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I start.
“I do,” he says, silencing me with a fast, demanding kiss.
“I’m here,” Fitzy announces brightly, appearing in the terrace doors, carrying several garment bags. His brow arches, and he runs his gaze over the intimate way Gulliver is holding me before his lips twitch into an amused smirk. “Hello, darlings.”
“Hey Fitzy,” Gulliver greets, his voice dry and a little frustrated as he tilts his hips, reminding me just how hard he is.
“Hi Fitzy,” I say, my cheeks heating a little.
Fitzy’s gaze turns to me. “Hello, Izzy, sweetheart,” he says warmly. Then his eyes narrow a little, and his lips dip into a frown. “Neither of you are even showered yet?” he cries, glancing at his watch, then marching over to us and shoving Gulliver aside so he can take my hand and pull me away. “Gulliver, Kip, upstairs, showers, now. Make sure the others are ready too, I have outfits for everyone. Now let’s go,” he orders, rolling his eyes at his godson. Shaking his head dramatically, he tugs me toward the house before any of us have a chance to argue.
Fitzy’s dramatic sense of urgency is infectious, and I rush through my shower quickly, pulling on my robe and padding back into the bedroom while I blot the water from my hair with a towel. Yolanda is already set up and waiting for me, so I make my way toward her, pretending that I don’t hear Fitzy’s gasp when he sees the fading bruises on my face. Yolanda has my hair dry and styled into beautiful mermaid waves and a full face of what she calls “showstopper makeup” done so quickly it feels like I barely blinked and it was finished.
The whole time I was being pampered, Fitzy chatted easily, pointedly avoiding asking the question I know he must be dying to ask. When Yolanda removes the cape from around my shoulders, I stand up and turn to him. “My parents,” I say simply, lifting my eyebrows and shrugging.
The sympathy that is etched into every line on his face rankles me enough that I inhale sharply and walk past him to the dressing screen that’s been set up in the far corner. From behind the screen, I hear him clear his throat. “I’ve left some underwear for you to put on, then I’ve brought a few different outfits for you to try,” he says, all business now.
The underwear is barely-there black lace; so fine it feels sensual against my skin when I slide it on. Fitzy hands me a garment bag, and when I unzip it, I find a tight black bandage dress. It instantly reminds me of my sister, so I quickly rezip the bag and step out from behind the screen, ignoring the fact that I’m only wearing underwear as I hand it back to Fitzy. “That isn’t me, it’s my sister,” I say, my voice breaking with the ugly emotion that’s filling my throat.
“That dress is Gucci, and you’d look like a supermodel in it,” he protests, pursing his lips.
“Fuck, if that’s what you’re wearing, I think I want us to stay home,” Gulliver calls from the doorway, quickly stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. His wet hair is slicked back, he’s wearing a crisp white button-down, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and dark slim fit jeans that cling to his thickly muscled thighs.
Rolling my eyes at Gulliver, I unzip the garment bag and pull the dress out to show him. He wrinkles his nose. “God no. That looks like something Penelope would wear.”
Arching an eyebrow, I turn back to Fitzy, who purses his lips. “I’ve never met your sister. Give me a break.” Throwing the dress to the floor, he grabs another garment bag and thrusts it into my hands. “Go,” he says, shooing me back behind the screen.
This time, when I unzip the bag, I can’t help but smile. Pulling the black, satin, high-waisted shorts free, I run my fingers over the fabric before sliding them on and fastening the zipper. The top takes a little more time, but once I ditch the pretty bra and turn back to the mirror that’s been hung from the screen, I have to bite my lip to stop my smile from overtaking my face.
There are a few inches of visible skin between the waist of the shorts and the hem of the fitted, bralette-style crop top that wraps around my breasts and ties at the back. The structured satin holds everything in place, and I feel beautiful.
This outfit is absolutely something I would have picked for myself, and as I slide my feet into simple black Dior pumps, I start to relax, my melancholy thoughts giving way to a happy glow that has me grinning from ear to ear.
“This is perfect,” I tell Fitzy, stepping out from the screen.
“Wait,” Fitzy calls, grabbing something from a bag, then clipping a thick silver bangle around my wrist. “Yes, now that’s perfect. But I brought more options, do you want to see them?”
“No, I love this. Thank you, Fitzy,” I say, genuinely thankful for having met him.
Smiling fondly, he cups my cheek with his palm and presses an oddly paternal kiss against my forehead. His eyes wrinkle at the corners, and a sadness flashes across his face. “They don’t deserve you. But bruises will fade, and you’ll be stronger once they do,” he whispers, smiling tightly.
