Chapter 29 Panty Proof
Panty Proof
— T ODAY —
In an irredeemably short black dress and coordinated knee-high socks, I walk down the stairs, headed toward the crowded bar. The chain of my necklace is long enough to be hidden by the dress, and my hand moves to it as it always does when I’m nervous. Knowing it’s there makes me feel better.
I don’t even know if Ian will be there, except he has to be. That’s where we’re most likely to meet. We haven’t talked since breakfast, but I’ve seen the looks he’s thrown at me. I’m here to prove what he said this morning is wrong, and he wants me to. I know he does. So… he’ll be there, right?
I approach the hotel hall, but before I can turn to the bar, I hear Ella’s voice. She’s talking to the concierge with the usual scowl. Puffing out a breath, I turn my back on her just as she spots me. “Preston.”
Oh, yay. Exactly what I need tonight.
I turn to Ella, who, arms crossed, struts to me. “I figured you should know something.”
Shoulders stiffening, I try to convince myself that whatever she’ll say now is a barefaced lie. That she’s just trying to drive a wedge between Ian and me and that he’s proved time and time again that he’s deserving of my trust.
I’m scared senseless anyway as she finally opens her mouth in a snarl. “I saw you, Preston.”
I pause, release a breath, and try to find the strength within me not to walk away. “You saw me? Saw me doing what? Where?”
“I saw you and Roberts.”
My eyes dart left to right. Ian and I weren’t exactly trying to sneak around, so—oh. She doesn’t mean Ian Roberts.
She nods. “Yeah. At the Marguerite about four months ago? I saw you.” Her smile turns smug. “On a date with Ian’s father .”
My heart hammers as I try to maintain a neutral expression. I know there’s no point in denying it, as she’d never believe me, but that was not a date. Fuck me, I can’t believe she was there. “So let me guess. Either I stay away from him or you’ll tell him?”
With a scoff, she grabs her bag. “No, Amelie. I don’t need to do anything at all, because Ian will never give you another chance. He might have sex with you, might look like he forgives you. But he won’t.” Stepping closer, she straightens her red dress. “But I want you to know that I know everything. And if Ian asks, I will speak.”
She walks away, the noises in the room slowly fading away as my ears ring. Trying to shake the feeling off, I turn around and stare into the crowded bar.
Ian is there, standing with his mouth open wide and a hand to his chest, his gaze roaming up and down my body. His shoulders slowly fall, and he mouths something I can’t hear from here, but it looks like “Fuck.”
This conversation with Ella was not what I needed tonight, but I won’t let it stop me. I’m on a mission.
Holding my chin up, I walk to him, stopping once I’m by his side, next to the counter. “Hello,” I say casually as I raise a hand to call the bartender.
“I’m pretty sure you mean ‘God damn.’?”
I chuckle, tossing a glance at him over my shoulder. His gaze is definitely south of my face, his chin tilted down and his mouth dumbly open. “Ian?”
“Hmm?”
“I think you dropped your eyes on my ass.”
He waves me off, his throat working hard. “Keep them. They never want to stare at anything else anyway.”
“In that case…” I wave to the bartender, who’s serving someone to my right.
“Are you okay?” He places his hand lightly against the small of my back, his eyes scanning my face as if he can see Ella’s words echoing in my mind. Of course he can sense that something’s wrong.
“Mm-hmm.”
When I keep my gaze lowered, he jerks his chin, then obnoxiously moves his face closer until his nose is an inch from mine. “Did the witch put a spell on you, Princess Amelie?”
“No, Prince Ian.”
“What did you and Ella talk about?”
“Just chef stuff.” The tip of his nose grazes mine. “You’re kind of invading my space.”
“I’m making up for all the time we lost when we were so, so far apart.” He grins proudly, and I can’t help smiling myself. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“A little.”
“How about now?” he asks as he squishes my nose with his. “Better?”
“I swear your brain stopped developing too early.”
“Closer?”
I giggle once his forehead presses against mine. “Stop trying to make me laugh. I’m not sad.”
“You look sad, though.” His forehead pushes mine until I’m forced to take a step back, and his arms tighten around me. “You know I can’t have that.”
“Stop it—Ian!” I shriek when he keeps pushing. “You come any closer and I’ll kiss you again.”
“You kiss me again and I’ll fuck you right here, right now.”
With my smile softening and a jolt of electricity striking my body, I lean back just enough to look into his eyes. I knew it. I knew he didn’t give up on me. “I still owe you drinks from our friendly date. Can I buy you a glass of wine?”
His eyes dip to my lips as he nods. “It’s about time.”
I lean forward and gently press a kiss on him, his mouth responding to mine with the same slow, exploring pace. His hand bunches in my dress as our bodies press together, and once he lets out a lovely, low grunt, I lean back.
Phase one of the plan is complete.
We order a glass of Chateau Pape Clément 2017 for me and some type of beer for him, and once the bartender gives us our drinks, Ian’s full attention is on me again. This is it. It’s time.
Phase two.
Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to stare into his expectant eyes, exuding as much confidence as I can possibly muster. It feels like all eyes are on me, and I’m sure they’re not, but my cheeks turn as red as the glass of wine I just ordered. It doesn’t matter: What I have in mind is the perfect way to kick tonight off. I won’t back down, won’t overthink it. In fact, I hope the night will end with me being unable to think anything at all.
“So…” I press myself against him, his eyes rolling down my décolletage lasciviously.
“Yes, Amelie?”
I gently pinch his dark blue sweater. “Our outfits match tonight.”
While he glances dubiously at my black dress, my hand meets his. His eyes widen slightly as they fixate on mine, and after a quick glance at his hand, he withdraws it and pushes it into his pocket, my blue panties tucked between his fingers.
“My favorite color,” he mumbles.
Just as I entwine my fingers with his, Pamela walks over to us. “Hello, you two!” she says, a little louder than necessary. Then, probably noticing the tangible tension, she adds, “Is everything okay?”
Ian’s mouth opens but he seems unable to answer, as no sound comes out. His eyes roll down my legs, then back to my face.
“Ian?” I whisper, unable to hide a pleased smile.
“Hmm.” He clears his throat, takes a sip of his beer, then another. Finally, he acknowledges Pamela. “Everything’s fine. I’m just a little warm.”
With a series of loud complaints about the weather, Pamela drags me to her table, Ian following right behind. I can feel his presence, his eyes back to the only thing they want to stare at.
Pamela takes her place beside David and Lucille, chefs at a local restaurant, and before I can grab one of the remaining chairs, Ian holds it out for me. I sit down, and he does, too, his body angled toward me so much, it’s almost as if there’s no one else at our table.
His eyes study me hungrily as I exchange a few polite remarks with David and Lucille, waiting for my attention to return to him. As soon as it does, he points at me. “That’s a—a very pretty dress,” he swallows. “It’s also very short.”
I shrug, then whisper, “I thought you might need ‘PFP’: panty for proof.”
There’s a shimmer in his eyes that I don’t know how to interpret: somewhere between angry and turned on. Then I think of his words when we discussed this specific fantasy of his.
I stare at your thighs, hoping to see underneath, terrified that someone else will. Unable to think about anything else, obsessing over how ready you are, how close, but unreachable.
Ian’s beer is gone a minute after my panty-less entrance, but he semi-patiently waits for me to drink my wine. He’s not too subtle about it, either, pushing my glass closer every time the chatter distracts me.
Not that I’m truly distracted. No, sir. I can feel his leg bouncing under the table, see his fingers tapping on his coaster. And I torture him, spreading my legs an inch wider every time he looks down, until the panic in his eyes is so jarring, I take pity on him and close them. Then I start again.
Our knees brush against each other, and as he slides nearer inch by inch, his hand casually grazes the part of my leg hidden by my dress. I have to keep myself from grinding against the chair. If he slid his finger a few inches up, he would find that spot slick.
I drink my last sip, and, like a spring, he jumps up and announces we’re leaving. I think even the walls know what for. We walk upstairs, whispering words between kisses, but they’re confused, slurred, distracted.
Once we’re standing in front of the door to his room, he leans back and stares into my eyes. His knuckle trails along the shape of my jaw as he studies me hungrily. “What happens next?” he whispers. “Do I need to drop to my knees? Because I will. I’ll beg if you want me to. You win. Please let me do unspeakable things to you.”
I bite my lip to contain a grin, every single function in my body shutting off and a strange new awareness tingling through me. I’m drunk with power. Drunk with the idea of this man dying to touch me, craving me. No one’s ever craved me before.
This man needs me.
He needs me, and he’s perfect, and I definitely want to spend the night with him.
I could say that I should have figured it out sooner, but the truth is that I knew all along and did nothing about it. And that is my biggest regret.
That, and everything that happened since the last time he asked me to spend the night with him.