Chapter 28 #2
“Uh-huh. Because that’s going great so far.” I pluck a sequin top off the bed and hold it up. “What’s wrong with this one?”
She snatches it back, glaring. “It makes my boobs look weird.”
I bite back a smile. “You’ve lost perspective, Parnell. Your boobs could never look weird.”
Her groan turns into a laugh despite herself, and that’s all the crack I need. I tug her up from the bed, ignoring her half-hearted protests.
“Truck’s outside. We’ll be back before anyone even notices. You can keep your cover story intact for tomorrow, just say it was a last-minute purchase.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re steamrolling me.”
“Lesson Seven,” I tell her, guiding her toward the stairs. “Don’t fight me when I’m right.”
She mutters something about hating my lessons, which is a giant fucking lie considering how often she comes apart on my cock—and especially because she’s still following me down the stairs.
By the time we hit the front door, she’s in full sulky negotiation mode.
“Fine, but I get music control.”
We cross the street and I unlock the truck, open the door, and gesture grandly. “Be my guest, Princess.”
“This is kidnapping,” she says, yanking the seatbelt across her chest.
“You got in willingly.”
“Under duress.”
I pull away from the curb, and she reaches for the stereo but pauses when she sees a takeaway cup in the console, with one pink and one green macaron balanced on the lid.
She blinks at me. “You brought me matcha?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the road.
“And my favorite macarons?”
I shrug, turning the corner. “You’ve had a busy week. Big event tomorrow. Thought you might like a treat.”
“That is,” she sputters, hand darting for the pink one, “very efficient, actually.”
“Or thoughtful.”
I cut her a sideways glance, a grin tugging at my mouth as she twists the macaron in half and pops one piece into her mouth.
She catches me looking and smiles sheepishly around the bite. “Fann yooo, Poo-ie.”
I snort. “Real romantic. Nothing gets me going like half-chewed macaron declarations.”
She swallows dramatically, batting her lashes. “Thank you, Pookie.”
“That’s better.” I drum the steering wheel once. “Almost had to revoke your treat privileges.”
Her glare lasts all of two seconds before she reaches for the stereo with a mutinous huff. “You know what? I’m worth every headache I give. So buckle up or be bored for the rest of your life.”
“Trust me, Lulu. You’re the last person who could bore me.”
Her hand stills on the dial for a beat before she side-eyes me. “Are you trying to flirt with me, or are you just delirious from jet lag?”
I scoff. “Flirting, Parnell. Get used to it.”
She fiddles with the radio, flipping until she lands on something upbeat. Pop and synthy, a voice that sounds vaguely familiar.
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
“What, you’d rather we brood in silence like Batman? No way. You’re getting Harry Styles.”
“Never heard of him.” It’s a lie, but riling Tallulah Parnell up is becoming one of my favorite pastimes, and it sure beats seeing her stressed out or down on herself.
“You live under a rock.”
“Correction,” I say, eyes on the road. “I live under a puck.”
“That is tragic. I can’t believe I’m even letting you drive me anywhere. At this rate, you probably don’t know who Taylor Swift is, either.”
“I do.”
“Name five songs.”
I side-eye her. “Uhh… Powerless?”
She groans, then props her chin in her hand, staring out the window. For a beat, the only sound is her quiet hum along with the music.
“You really don’t have to do this,” she says finally, softer.
“Do what?”
“This.” She waves a hand at the road, at me. “Drag me out like I’m your personal project. I’ll survive.”
“You’re sulking.”
She bristles. “Am not.”
All I have to do is look at her for a beat, and she exhales.
“Okay, maybe a little. But it’s not like I don’t have a reason.
Do you know what it’s like standing next to Charlie and Tamara and Zoe?
They look like actual WAGs, magazine-spread gorgeous, and then there’s me, a middle school teacher with a favorite Sharpie.
I look like the kid sister, tagging along. ”
I grip the wheel tighter, jaw flexing.
“You finished?” I ask.
She throws me a wounded glare. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean. I’m waiting for you to stop lying.”
Her mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“You think you don’t belong next to them? That’s a lie.”
She sputters. “It’s called being realistic.”
“No,” I say flatly. “It’s called being wrong.”
Her head whips toward me, indignant. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still sulking.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but she turns back to the window instead, pretending she’s not affected. She hums louder to cover it, off-key enough that I should tease her for it, but I don’t.
Because I notice things.
Like the way she’s piled her hair up into a claw clip, messy and uneven, because she hasn’t had time to braid it the way she likes.
Or that she’s wearing the little star earrings she only wears when she thinks she needs extra luck.
Or that she didn’t argue with me about her matcha and macarons, just enjoyed the treat.
None of it makes sense for someone who swears she doesn’t care or doesn’t need someone to make her feel special. And I’ll be fucked if anyone else is going to do that, when she’s the most special person in my life.
By the time I pull into the boutique lot, she’s stopped muttering under her breath about how this is the worst idea in history, which only proves my point—she needed to get out of her head.
***
The boutique hits me in the face the second we walk in. Overpriced perfume, soft jazz that makes my teeth itch, racks of silk and sequins that cost more than my mortgage.
“This is insane,” Lulu mutters, hugging herself. “I would’ve picked somewhere else.”
“Lesson Eight,” I say, scanning racks immediately. “Never underestimate a guy who knows how to pick out lingerie.”
Her head jerks toward me, eyes wide. “You are not picking out my lingerie.”
“Not today.”
Color floods her cheeks, and she smacks my arm. “You’re bossy, you know that?”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, steering her toward a display. “Pick something shiny and we’ll get out of here.”
She swats my arm. “You can’t just pick something shiny. That’s not how fashion works.”
“Looks the same to me.” I pluck a glittery dress off the rack and hold it against her. “This one screams Vegas showgirl.”
Her eyes narrow. “Logan.”
“What?” I gesture to it. “You’d look hot.”
She takes it from me and places it back onto the hanger. “If you make me try on something fugly, I swear to God—”
The sales assistant materializes, all wide eyes and too-bright smile. She clocks me instantly, stammers something about the Storm, and Lulu turns quickly, busying herself rifling through dresses.
I wink at the girl and wave her off. “Just browsing. My girlfriend’s picky.”
Lulu turns, beet red and hissing. “You can’t say that out loud!”
“Why not? It’s true.” I hand her another hanger without really looking. “Here. Sequins. Shiny. Sexy. Done.”
She sighs but takes it from me, muttering something about murder before disappearing into the dressing room.
I follow and wait patiently, sitting on an ottoman and scrolling through my phone.
I look like every poor bastard I’ve chirped over the years for playing mall cop while their girlfriend tried on clothes.
But with Lulu, I couldn’t give a single fuck.
My only goal is to make her feel good about herself, less stressed and overwhelmed, and sexy as hell.
When the door finally creaks, she steps out in a sequin slip dress with a cowl neck and the tiniest spaghetti straps I’ve ever seen. Light scatters across her skin, her curves, the soft line of her throat. It’s the same blue as her eyes, and it knocks the air straight out of my lungs.
“Too much?” she asks, turning to look at herself in the mirror.
My mouth opens, but no noise comes out.
She tugs at the hem. “See? It’s ridiculous. I look like a disco ball.”
Disco ball? She looks like the sharpest fucking star in the sky.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Her eyes dart up then away, arms crossing over her front. She doesn’t see what I see—how every head in this place turns for her, how she makes the dress instead of the other way around.
She shakes her head, cheeks flaming. “Told you. Too much.”
My jaw flexes, words pressing up hard against the back of my teeth, but none of them fit.
“Go back in.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Go back in,” I say, steadier now. “We’re not done.”
She rolls her eyes and starts to retreat inside, and I push to my feet to follow her in before she can stop me.
I flick the lock behind us. The room’s small, mirror-lined, claustrophobic. Her back hits the glass as I crowd in, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her waist.
“Logan—”
“You have no idea,” I murmur, gaze dragging over every curve the dress clings to, “what you’re doing to me right now.”
Her breath stutters. “It’s just a dress.”
“No,” I growl, mouth brushing her ear. “It’s you in the dress.”
Her eyes, so fucking blue right now, dance between mine, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I pin her there with my hips, my mouth brushing her ear.
“You’ve been stressed. Sulking about dresses, about standing next to the others. You think I’m letting you talk about yourself like that?”
“I wasn’t—”
Her protest dies in a gasp when I kiss her; my hand fists the hem and shoves it higher on her thigh. She moans into me, fingers clawing at my hair, dragging me closer like she’s been starving, too. When I pull back, my mouth drags over hers.
“You were.” My fingers slide under her panties, teasing over her clit until she gasps. “Lesson Nine. An attitude adjustment.”
“Logan, we can’t—someone could—”
She lets out a soft gasp against my shoulder when my fingers sink into her soaked pussy, curling deep.
“Fuck… Feels so good—don’t stop.”
She’s already a mess, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy. I curl my fingers deeper, thumb stroking her clit, and she starts to ride my hand, needy and greedy and shameless.
Her head tips back, a choked moan spilling out as I fuck her on my hand, until she’s coming undone against my palm, clutching my shoulders.
I yank my fingers free and bring them to my lips, sucking them clean with a groan. “Goddamn. You taste like fucking heaven.”
Her pupils blow wide, chest heaving. “You’re insane.”
“You remember what you told me that first morning we fucked?” I whisper, spinning her gently toward the mirror as I unzip my jeans. “That you wanted a lesson in public? Wanted me to rail you in a dressing room while anyone could hear?”
Her lashes flutter. “A lesson in… public.”
“You begged for this,” I murmur, dragging my cock through her pussy until she’s panting. “In a dressing room. My hands on you while anyone could walk by.”
She nods at my reflection, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. I dust a kiss to her bare shoulder, to the back of her neck, then push into her inch by inch until we’re both groaning.
“Lesson Ten.” I thrust slowly, dragging a soft moan out of her throat. “Watch yourself fall apart in the mirror. Watch what I do to you.”
Her forehead presses to the glass, but I slide a hand under her chin, turning her face so she can see. “No, keep watching. Look how perfect you are.”
She whimpers but obeys, staring at the glass as I start to move. The reflection is obscene—her tits bouncing, the dress bunched at her waist, my cock slamming into her while her breath fogs against the mirror.
“Look at you,” I groan, thrusting faster. “Taking my cock so deep and fucking perfect. This pussy’s mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she moans, voice breaking.
“Again.”
“Yours. Always—Oh god, I’m gonna come again…”
I tug her mouth to mine, kissing her as she spasms around me and comes apart a second time. Her cry is swallowed between our mouths, her body shaking, but she keeps her eyes open, watching herself unravel like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I rasp, pounding harder, filth spilling out between ragged kisses. “My girl. My pussy. My everything.”
Her reflection blurs and streaks, and when I finally lose it, groaning into her hair, it’s with her reflection burned into me—wrecked and radiant in the mirror.
This girl, who once asked me for lessons on how to come, has no idea she’s the one teaching me how it feels to belong to someone.