12. Lydia
LYDIA
My heart is still pounding when we pull up to the boutique again and Nico steps out.
The bell over the boutique door chimes once, and Sophie immediately walks towards us with that professional smile on her face.
“Mrs. D’Ambrosio!” she greets me. “And Mr. D’Ambrosio, the dress is not ready ye–”
“Out.” Nico interrupts her with a dark glare. His voice is heavy and strained.
“I…” She never gets the word out.
“All of you.” He looks at the army of seamstresses who have all poked their heads out to look, and then at Anastasio as well. “Now.”
Sophie looks at us with surprise in her eyes, and then at Anastasio, who gives her the lightest of nods. She then casts a glance my way, before she does as she’s told. The seamstresses follow her like ducks in a row.
Nico turns to Anastasio and rests a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Lock the door. Nobody comes in. Not until I come out.”
“Boss…”
Nico tightens his grip. “That’s a fucking order.”
“Heard,” Anastasio says. “I’ll discourage the curious.”
My heart is now racing a mile a minute. Shamefully, the creeping thrill that’s been building ever since I saw Nico’s fist connect with Frank’s face starts to turn into a wet warm pulse between my legs.
The bell chimes one more time, and then it goes deathly quiet. And then it’s just us in a room full of mannequins. Somewhere in the back office, someone’s phone is playing Adele’s Skyfall. The silence between us grows heavy and suffocating.
Nico crosses to me. I make myself hold still. He takes my chin again, the way he did at the restaurant, and turns my face to the light from the window. But this time his thumb moves over the bruise slowly and his jaw goes hard.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Did that bastard touch you anywhere else?”
It isn't a question I'm allowed to dodge. His hand leaves my face and takes my wrist—the one Frank grabbed—and turns it over, pressing along the bone with a gentleness that makes my throat close.
He checks the other, and then tips my chin one more time to look at the cheek where the bruise is forming.
"I asked you a question." His voice is quieter now. "And you will answer me."
"No." It comes out smaller than I want.
Something in his shoulders eases by a fraction. He steps back, seemingly satisfied with the answer for now.
“How did you get here?” I ask before I stop myself.
“Anastasio called me,” he answers. “Told me that a cop was harassing you.”
Then, whatever softness was in his hands a second ago folds away behind his eyes, replaced by something I know better.
He cocks his head and steps towards me. “He also told me about what you fucking bought.”
I swallow again, remembering how bold I was in picking that dress.
“Now that I know that bastard didn’t touch you anywhere else.” He leans down, lips brushing against the shell of my ear, and he whispers. “I want you to show me the dress.”
I turn around and look back down the hallway towards where the seamstresses had fretted over me an hour ago. Behind a partially opened door, I spot that familiar shade of red I picked out. My feet start moving silently, and Nico follows closely behind, refusing to let me leave his orbit.
Heart fluttering, I push the door open when I get close and gasp when I see that the dress’s shape has already been cut.
The slit running up the left thigh has been cut.
The row of pearls is half sewn into the exposed back.
Apart from the final details like the crystals around the neckline, it’s practically finished already.
All around us are large mirrors. Everywhere I look, I see myself and I see Nico. The reflections fold in on themselves, and for a single, dizzying moment, it’s like I’m being watched by a dozen Nicos.
His hands rest on my shoulders, warmth seeping into my skin as he looks at the scandalously exposed dress. “What was the one thing I told you last night about today?”
“To be on my best behavior,” I answer.
“And what did you promise me in return?”
I swallow as the answer I condemned myself with last night returns. “That I’d be a good girl.”
“And were you on your best behavior?” His voice turns low and silky as his hand finds my waist. “Were you a good girl? Does that dress look anything close to appropriate for church?”
I know why he’s asking all of those questions one after another. They all share the same answer. So, I give him a curt shake of my head. “No.”
“No,” he repeats.
His hand tightens, sending a delicious curl of heat down my back that chases away the cold dread that had closed around my heart from earlier. I let a soft breathy moan pour out of my lip.
The moment I do, he slips his fingers underneath the fabric of my new blouse. Fire pours into my veins when skin kisses skin.
“Nico…” I breathe. “We shouldn’t.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
My mouth clamps shut. His fingers have rolled my blouse down my shoulder, and they’re now starting to tug at the straps of my bra.
"Tell me to stop, Lydia.” His voice hangs heavy and hot against my neck.
I remain silent as he slowly pulls my bra straps down my shoulders. A second later, the cups of my bra fall away, and I shiver as the cool air kisses my nipples.
“Last chance, Lydia.” He nibbles at my ear, and I refuse to make even a single sound.
Nico’s hands continue to move down my side, pushing the blouse lower and lower. Heat gathers between my legs, and my tongue darts out to wet my quivering lips when he exposes my belly.
When my blouse pools at my feet, he stops, and meets my gaze in the mirror. One hand rises up, takes my nipple between his finger and thumb, and rolls the sensitive bud. The other starts to undo the button of my new shorts, and slowly unzips it open.
“Tell me to stop, Lydia.” He palms my breast and gives it a possessive squeeze. “And I will.”
“No…” I breathe.
A devilish glint slips into his eyes, and he suddenly lets me go. I whimper at the sudden absence of his touch, wishing that he might return.
“Take the shorts off, Lydia.”
I keep my eyes focused on him in the mirror, hook my fingers under the fabric, and give my hips a shimmy to let them fall to where my blouse is.
He walks over to the half-complete dress, and looks at it for a moment, before he starts taking it off the mannequin.
“It’s not ready!” I protest. “You'll ruin the work—"
"Then I'll buy you another." He takes it off the mannequin and walks back towards me. “You were going to wear this to church and put your skin on display in front of every man in that building. I want you to show me what you think they’ll be looking at.”
Fuck… I tremble at the iron in his voice as a fresh burst of wetness beads down my thighs.
“Put the dress on, Lydia.”
My face is on fire. But my hand moves as I step into it, drawing it over my hips and settling the cool, unfinished silk across my shoulder before letting it descend down to my forearms. Nico’s breath quickens as he sees the way it fits my body.
“What did you think was going to happen when you wear it to church?” he asks.
“You’d be pissed off.”
“Hmm.” He steps in closer and I can feel a familiar throbbing heat behind me. “What else?”
“That you’d want to hurt every man who dared to look at me.”
“And yet you still chose this dress to be cut like this,” he whispers. “Why?”
“Because I like it when you talk about hurting people for me.”
He steps back and looks down at me as I look up at him. The world pauses until I lose count of how many heartbeats have passed.
“Panties,” he orders me.
Fire licks up my face, and I’m lost so deep in the moment that I’m not sure how I manage to reach between my legs, and roll the thin material down my legs. It falls soundlessly to the floor and I step out of it. He picks them up, mouth curling as he turns them over in his fingers.
“Soaked,” he says softly. “So you weren’t fucking lying.”
Shame and desire war in my heart at how accurate his words are. I nod, and his eyes go down me slowly, from head to bare feet. The arrogant smile returns to his lips.
"Be a good girl now, and touch yourself, Lydia."
Mindless, my hand pulls the skirt up and runs along my slit. Pleasure and shame and wanting all tangle into a ball until I can't tell them apart. I'm already so wet it's humiliating, and with every stroke under his watchful gaze, I’m getting wetter and wetter.
“Spread yourself open,” he strains. “And show me how fucking turned on you are when I hurt people for you.”
A sound slips out of me that I'd give anything to take back. Yet like a woman possessed, I do exactly as I’m told. I moan as I spread my pussy open. He walks forward and runs his hand against my entrance to collect the slickness between his fingers.
Then, he bunches the fabric and brings it to my mouth. "Open."
My lips part, and he pushes my soaked panties into my mouth to let me taste myself. A violent shudder moves through me like I grabbed a live wire, and my hand starts moving between my legs.
Suddenly, his hand grabs me by my shoulder, turns me around, and presses me against the mirror. Before I have a chance to realize what’s happening, his hand comes down on my ass, hard and sharp. But the pain feels so good.
I yelp in surprise against the panties in my mouth.
“That’s for not being on your best behavior,” he whispers against my ear.
In the mirror, I see his hand rise up again. When it comes down, it hits the same spot, sending another burst of pleasurable ache up my ass. The cry that comes from my throat is louder, and raspier.
“That’s for not being a good girl.”
My fingers move faster and faster between my legs. His other hand closes around my neck and holds me up as the palm rises again.
This time, when it comes down, the sting blooms into a wet heat that runs straight to my throbbing clit.
“And this,” he says against my ear. “Is for thinking this dress is an appropriate thing to wear to church.”
This time, his fingers slide between my thighs from behind and find me slick and ready. He pushes inside and I scream in pleasure at how completely he dominates me. His hand works in time with mine towards the impending orgasm. My legs start to shake.
He presses his lips against my ear. “Which is exactly why I want you to wear it to church.”
Just as I’m seconds away from the peak, he pulls away, takes my hand between my legs, and presses it against the mirror, leaving behind a wet streak against the cool smooth surface. I buck my hips against him, seeking contact in any way I can.
“So that I can identify every man who dares to look at you,” he bites the shell of my ear. “And know exactly who to bury after."
And that’s when I come. Not by his hands nor by mine, but by his fucking voice. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I scream against my own soaked panties in my mouth underneath him. My body folds against his, and the shame of it all crashes through me even before the pleasure has finished.
He lets go of my hand against the glass and rips the panties out of my mouth. I pull in a deep breath before a long ragged scream echoes off every surface of the room. He kicks my legs open and pulls me close to let the fire of his body overwhelm me.
He hooks his finger under my chin, and tilts my face to his to capture my lips. I come again and again, pussy clenching uselessly against literal fucking nothing as he drains the air from my lungs and devours my screams.