Chapter 8 – Braxton
brAXTON
“Hmm.” Gerard makes a thoughtful noise as he studies Waverly.
“I’m not one to get involved with domestic situations, but I’m going to agree with your men on this, and that’s not something I ever do, whether they’re paying or not.
” His English is flawless, even with his heavy French accent.
“Darling, you’re talking about the Ouest family, if you know what I’m saying. ”
Waverly throws him a side eye, refusing to concede our little standoff. “Not really.”
I dip my face toward hers until we’re inches apart.
“It means you need to listen to him and go pick out what you need for this trip. Stop being stubborn and prideful. This is not about that. Let us buy you what you need, Waverly.” I whip out my Centurion Black Amex and unfurl her clenched fist so I can force the card into it. “Please?”
She blinks wildly at my please. Probably because it’s not something Tristan would use on her in this situation, but I’m not Tristan. She’ll have to start learning that I do things differently than he does as a boss, but also as a lover and boyfriend.
“We just want you to feel comfortable. Your clothes are old and worn, and so is your suitcase. You’re beautiful no matter what. Let us dress you like the queen you are.”
“O-okay.”
“Wonderful.” And because I can’t seem to resist, I lean in and kiss her cheek.
I might also take a deep breath. And linger a fraction too long.
Gerard doesn’t give a shit. He already said he knew we were her men, and to Waverly’s credit, she didn’t balk at that.
It could have been her anger or the shock of the situation, but I’m hoping not.
“I love men who travel smartly. You can help yourself to refreshments, and if there’s anything you require, either I or another member of the staff will be happy to assist.” Gerard wiggles his fingers in some direction behind me. “We’ll come get you when we’re finished.”
And with that, he takes Waverly away from me.
She throws me a death stare over her shoulder but no longer fights it.
I think part of her wants to impress Tristan’s parents and make them like her.
I think she wants to play this part and do it well.
Maybe for the money. But more likely because she’s Waverly and believes in doing everything to the best of her ability.
Regardless, she’s getting a new wardrobe at the capable hands of Gerard, and I take my work bag with my laptop in tow and head toward those refreshments.
“Mr. Hicks, please come with me.” Some random attendant guides me toward a lounge off the second-floor dressing room.
“We have a space set up for you where you’ll be able to see your lady friend’s outfit choices while getting some work done if that’s what you require. Mr. Ouest is already set up there.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
The private dressing room is divided into two sections.
The lounge area has firm couches and leather recliners along with coffee, water, and tea.
On the other side is where the fitting rooms and mirrored staging area are.
I make myself a coffee and settle in on one of the empty recliners next to Tristan.
“You got her to agree.”
“I’m the softer touch in our threesome, remember?”
He grunts, but for once, doesn’t argue with me.
For a solid hour, we get a ton of work done. It’s quiet back here, and our cell phones don’t seem to work in this part of the building, so we have no interruptions.
It’s heaven.
That is until I hear Waverly’s soft voice from down the hall, “Gerard?”
I sit up and glance around, but there is no Gerard to be found.
“Gerard?” she tries again.
I close my laptop, slip it back into my bag, and stand. “Waverly? Are you okay?”
“Um. Yes. I’m fine. I just need Gerard. Is he out there?”
I glance down at Tristan, who waves for me to do it since he’s working on something.
“No.” I walk down the short hallway until I reach her room. “What’s wrong?” I ask, already grinning at how her face is poking through the smallest crack of the open door.
“Ah! Go away.”
I chuckle. “Not going to happen. What’s wrong?”
She hesitates.
“It’s just me out here. You could wait, but who knows when he’ll return.”
She puffs out an annoyed breath. “I’m stuck. I managed to zip the dress up, but I can’t unzip it, and it’s too tight.”
“Unlock your door. I’ll help you.”
“No way. Gerard? Gerard?!” She screeches on the last one.
“Get over it. Open the door and I’ll help you.”
“Oh my god! But…”
“But?”
“You’re going to have to close your eyes.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“Just do it!”
“I can’t help you if I can’t see.”
“This is so embarrassing. Fine. But you can’t… you know… comment or anything.”
“Promise. I’ll be professional.”
She steps back, and I enter the spacious dressing room. In front of Waverly is a three-way mirror with a stand, and behind her is a couch and a rack filled with different clothes.
Waverly is wearing an emerald green dress that hugs her body like it’s a second skin.
It’s low in the front—too low where half of her tits are spilling out—and high at the back hem—too high where half of her ass is showing—and that’s where the problem arises.
But fucking hell, does she look sinfully hot in this dress.
To the point where my dick instantly takes notice and springs to attention like an eager little bastard.
I swallow thickly, my pulse thrumming through my palms. I step toward her, and she steps up onto the platform thing to help with the height difference and covers her spilling cleavage with her hand as I reach for the zipper at the back of her neck.
My fingers thread through her soft hair, and I push the heavy strands over her shoulder.
Our gazes lock in the mirror straight ahead of us, but then I take note of the ones on the left and right.
I work on the zipper, and true to her word, it’s good and stuck. I wiggle it up and down, trying to set it free, but it appears some of the fabric is bunched in the zipper, causing it to snag and not move.
“Damn, what did you do?”
“I don’t know. Can you get it out?”
“I’m trying.”
I meet her eyes again and instantly picture how good she would look getting fucked from behind in triplicate. I’d step up onto the platform and slide—nope. Not going there. Ever.
“I have to touch you more to try to work it free. Okay?”
“I don’t care where you touch me. Just do it already.”
“I hate it when women say that to me.”
She laughs and sighs. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny, but you have to relax. You getting all worked up like this won’t help me get it out.”
“I hate it when men say that to me.”
I grin and cock an eyebrow at her, and she giggles lightly.
Some of the tension ebbs, but that doesn’t last once my hand slides to her upper ribs, doing my best to avoid the side of her breast as I use her body for leverage.
But still, this zipper won’t budge. And with every move and shift, the front of the dress goes with it, the swell of her perfect tits taunting and teasing me, the hem of the dress rising, creeping up her thighs, and getting closer and closer to her pussy.
A pussy I can’t help but wonder if it’s wet.
As wet as my dick is hard. I think about a million other things.
I try to focus on anything else. But it’s impossible with her like this, with my hands on her and her body and hair so close I can smell them, and the erotic fantasy of the mirror surrounding us.
“Can’t you get it?”
“No,” I grit out. “How did you zip this up?”
“I don’t know?!” she shrieks. “I just want to get out of it.”
“Relax. Stop squirming. I’ll get you out.”
“You men and your stupid clothes. I hate you now as much as I hate him. It’s official. I didn’t so much on the plane, but now I do.”
“You won’t be saying that when I get the zipper undone.”
My hand slides around her ribs to hold her in place when she unexpectedly shifts, and suddenly I’m cupping her breast. And considering how turned on I already am, and that finally touching her like this feels like some sort of relief mixed with the best thing ever, a groan slips out.
I don’t know how to stop it. It’s a reflex to touching a perfect breast.
My eyes flash up to hers in the mirror, and I curse under my breath for groaning and for being in this position with her in the first place. She gasps, her eyes wide and unblinking. Blood pounds through my ears—and let’s face it, my dick—but she doesn’t push me away.
Why isn’t she pushing me away?
And more importantly, why am I not moving my hand away?
She’s still, no longer squirming as we stare in a deadlock with my hand on her breast. My thumb shifts ever so subtly, noting the skin it’s touching, and I ache with the need to slip my hand under the remaining fabric and cover her so I can feel all of her bare.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her gray eyes are the color of the winter sky outside, but then she does the craziest thing.
She bites her lip, and instinct takes over rational thought. I knead it a little. And she still doesn’t stop me.
Stop me, Waverly, because I can’t stop myself.
A soft little noise escapes her lips that I swear is a moan. I fucking swear it is, and my other hand abandons the zipper and finds her hip. Without stopping myself, I spin her around and smash my lips to hers while adjusting my hand to keep it on her breast.
And fuck. Just… fuck. She’s as perfect as I knew she would be.
And fuck, because I’m kissing Waverly in a dressing room and she’s to be my assistant and she’s pretending to be my best friend’s girl.
But I can’t stop. It’s what I’ve been saying all along.
I was operating on a short fuse before, but now it’s been lit, and there’s no stopping my explosive reaction to her.
The best part? She kisses me back. Her hands dive into the back of my hair, and she holds my head to hers as my tongue slips into her mouth. I squeeze and rub her breast while I grip her hip and tilt my head so I can take her deeper.
“Waverly,” I groan, my lips trickling down her neck only to immediately find her lips again. “So fucking sweet.”
“Braxton,” she whispers against me, her fists clinging to me.
“God, yes. I want you so much.”
She steps into my hand, our kiss turning frantic as we move and pull and touch. I slide—
“How are we doing in here?” Gerard singsongs a second before he taps noisily on the door of the dressing room. It’s enough of a warning that I jump back, my hands fleeing her body and all the places I never should have touched.
Fuck!
I run my hands over my face and through my hair, trying to calm my ragged breathing and my raging hard-on down.
“She’s stuck,” is my brilliant response.
I meet her eyes, step forward, and tuck her tits back into her dress since she seems incapable of moving or doing anything other than staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
I take her in for a moment, ensure she’s covered, run my hands through my hair so it’s not all over the place, then swing the dressing room door open.
“I tried to get her out of it, but I can’t.
Do you think you can give it a try?” With that, I leave, storming back to my recliner, my laptop, and my work while ignoring the curious glances from Tristan.
“You’re not going to tell me why you look the way you do right before you come?”
Motherfucker!
“She was stuck in her dress, and we couldn’t get her out of it, but with the struggle, my hand accidentally touched her breast. Then I kissed her.
” I close my laptop and turn to him. “I kissed her hard, and I touched her. She has the best fucking tits on the planet in case you’re wondering.
And I would have kept going if we hadn’t been interrupted.
I don’t regret it, nor do I take it back, because it was the best kiss and boob squeeze I’ve ever had.
I don’t know if she feels the same, but that’s where I am. ”
There. It’s out there now. He can do what he wants with it.