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I want every goddamn day of her life to be out of her normal until one day it clicks, and she realizes: She deserves every. Fucking. Thing.
And I’m going to give it to her.
Because this is the life she should’ve had all along. Instead of sitting in the basement of a fucking morgue, she deserved a penthouse. She deserved a comfortable bed to sleep in at night. She didn’t deserve to worry about her bills or her schooling all because Ed was a fucking piece of shit and a deadbeat dad.
“Ready,” Atlas calls out after several minutes slip by in the quiet of the store.
The little woman rushes in to help, letting the door click closed behind her. I stride through the aisles of designer gowns, my fingers skimming the tulle and beadwork of dresses that seem too small and petite. Perhaps I’m in the children’s section. I peer up at the white sign that reads:sizes zero, zero to nine.
What the fuck does zero, zero mean?
“We’re ready, Mr. Stone,” the woman calls out to me just before throwing open the dressing room door dramatically.
I turn just as white material spills out of the space. And then Atlas is smiling at me. Her smile touches her eyes and shines there like warm honey. But it’s the way she fills out the whitest dress I’ve ever seen. The lace hugs her breasts with intricate details. The material presses perfectly along her curves before splitting at the thigh with a sexy fucking slit that I want to lick my way up.
It’s gorgeous and she’s a sexy goddess.
It’s all wrong. Terrible. Fuck me.
Because she looks like my bride instead of my date.
I don’t often find myself at a loss for words, but my brain has been promptly broken. A switch has been flipped inside, awakening the most primal, barbaric part of me. I consider throwing her over my shoulder and hauling her out of this shop and keeping her in my bed for the rest of the day. For the rest of her fucking life.
I’ll chain her to my bed and never let her go.
“It–It’s–” I think that’s the first time in my entire life I’ve stuttered.
“I look like a bride,” Atlas whispers with a deep blush that wrecks all my insides. So she sees it too. Her mind went exactly to the same place mine did at the sight.
“You look likemybride,” I correct as I take stalking steps toward her.
I can’t stop myself from touching her low on her hips and dragging her to my chest. Her breasts push perfectly against me and laughter tumbles out of her, and I think she thinks I’m joking, but secretly, I’m already calculating how much they’d charge me if I took her into one of these rooms and fucking destroyed this gown and convinced her with multiple orgasms to be my fucking wife.
The white lace wrinkles beneath my palms as I grip her hard.
“Should we try another color then, Mr. Stone?”
Atlas smirks as she looks over her shoulder at the woman, pushing me off and ruining all my good ideas.
“Yeah, I’ll try the black one,” Atlas tells her, already entering the room and closing the door on me and my fucking throbbing cock.
I shove my hand through my hair and walk it off. I walk the other way this time, the opposite way of the children’s section. The little white sign at the top of the rack sayssizes fourteen to twenty-two,and I can tell I’m in the right spot finally.
A deep-red fabric sticks out from the others, the material sleeker like silk as it folds near the waist in a design I can’t fully see. The color would darken her skin tone with a glow like fire casting across her pretty features. The waistline would emphasize the flare of her hips. It’d...
“We’re ready, Mr. Stone,” the woman calls out again, and I rush through the aisle to see her step out.
The black number is pretty. It’s formal. Too formal really. It blooms out into a wide cast of soft material all around her feet, overtaking her body with a mass of fabric that hides all the beauty she has underneath it.
“It’s heavy,” Atlas tells me with a curl of her lips. “I look like a bowling ball.”
“You look stunning,” I correct, taking her against me all over again. At this rate, I’ll be fucking her in my car by the time they flip over the Open sign in their window.
“It looks more like a prom dress,” she whispers quietly as if she’s terrified of offending the shop owner with that small feedback.
It’s not like the woman designed the dress herself.
But it’s the second one she’s tried on. And though that’s not a lot really, I can see it’s wearing on her that she hasn’t found what she’s looking for.
