Chapter 24
“Hey, Dev! The courier is here,” Sarah calls from downstairs, her voice echoing up the staircase and through the open door of my bedroom.
After applying the final sweep of mascara to my lashes, I set down the tube and stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans. “Coming,” I shout back, though Sarah has likely already started to take care of the delivery, or whatever task comes next in her endless rotation of managing my life.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I can see through the foyer windows to the driveway below.
The delivery truck, a generic white van with a logo I don’t recognize, sits idling not far from the front door.
Before the driver has even killed the engine, Jagger and Damon are flanking the vehicle like an ambush.
The courier steps out, a young guy in his twenties with a baseball cap and a clipboard.
Damon says something to him that makes the kid’s face go pale.
Jagger circles the van, peering into the windows, checking the undercarriage with a thoroughness that would be comical if it weren’t so deadly serious.
Ordinarily, I would think this is an overreaction, intervene, and apologize to the poor delivery guy for my overzealous security team, but nothing about my life feels normal anymore.
I don’t want strange men getting this close to the house. I don’t want anyone I don’t know within breathing distance of my front door, let alone into the foyer, where my reflection stares back at me in the antique mirror, wide-eyed and vulnerable.
The courier unloads a couple boxes and garment bags, his movements jerky and nervous under the weight of Jagger and Damon’s scrutiny.
They take the packages from him, Damon handling the flat boxes containing script proposals with surprising gentleness, and Jagger gathering the garment bags from the designer with careful hands.
They bring everything inside and pause when they reach the entryway.
“The dresses,” Jagger says, and I turn to find him holding out the garment bags to Gunnar, who has appeared from somewhere downstairs.
Gunnar takes them, his large hands wrapping around the hangers with a delicacy at odds with his size.
He’s wearing a white T-shirt that stretches across his chest, the fabric worn soft from washing, and dark jeans that accentuate the thick musculature of his thighs.
His eyes find mine across the foyer, still full of the same barely leashed intensity that makes my stomach flutter with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
“I’ll take these to your room,” Gunnar shares, moving toward the stairs and ascending them with purpose.
I watch him go, the garment bags swaying in his grip, before turning to Sarah.
“Can you go through the boxes,” I ask Sarah. “There should be a few scripts and things mixed in with the fan mail. Can you please make sure they make it to my office?”
She nods, directing Damon and his full arms toward her office beside the den with the efficiency that makes her indispensable.
“When you’re done with the paperwork, head home for the day. It’s getting late. We can go over the scripts tomorrow.”
“You sure? I could stay, we could—”
“Go home,” I interrupt, offering a smile that feels more genuine than it should, given everything. “Spend the evening not thinking about my schedule. I’ll be fine.”
She hesitates, her gaze flicking to the stairs, where Gunnar is cresting the second-floor landing, then back to me. “Call me if you need anything,” she says finally, gathering her things. “Anything at all, Dev. Day or night.”
“I will,” I promise, though we both know I won’t. Not unless it’s an emergency. And even then, probably not.
She heads toward her office as I climb the stairs slowly, my hand trailing along the banister.
I find Gunnar in my bedroom, standing in my closet, with the garment bags draped over his arm, jostling them slightly as he makes room on the rung to hang them.
“Careful with those!” I exclaim, stepping into the large walk-in closet with him.
He makes a face—a slight tightening of his jaw and subtle arch of one eyebrow that says without words that he thinks my concern is excessive. “They’re dresses,” he huffs, his voice that low rumble that never fails to send heat curling through my belly. “How expensive can they be?”
“They’re couture,” I inform him, moving close enough to inhale the cedarwood scent of him that has become synonymous with my safety. “And very.”
He makes the disbelieving expression again, only this one is more exaggerated, his eyes wider and mouth twitching at the corner. “A couple hundred?” he guesses with a playfulness in his tone.
“More like a couple thousand.” I chuckle. “Most of them are more like tens of thousands.”
He looks at the garment bags, and realization dawns on him as he does the quick mental calculation.
He counts the hangars in his hand, his lips moving silently, before his gaze snaps to mine in horror.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” he exhales with genuine shock.
“You spent sixty thousand dollars on dresses?”
An obnoxious, uncontainable laugh bubbles up from deep inside me.
I can’t help it. “God no.” I shake my head.
His brows furrow, and I want to kiss the crinkle between them to smooth it away.
“They loan them to celebrities,” I explain, closing the distance between us.
“To wear on the red carpet. In return, we drop their name in interviews and gush over the design. It’s advertising. ”
His expression shifts to one of relief mixed with lingering skepticism. “So you don’t keep them?”
“Sometimes, if they gift them. But usually, they go back.”
He nods slowly, then turns back to my closet, moving with a new gentleness as he hangs the remaining garment bags on the rack. I watch him work, this dangerous man handling couture gowns with the care of a museum curator. He unzips one of the bags to look inside.
“This?” he attempts to confirm his disbelief as he exposes the gown beneath.
The black mini dress dangles from the hanger, looking like someone attempted to decorate it with metallic gold spray paint in the dark.
Hanging from three-quarters of the waistline is an orange floor-length skirt that looks exactly like shag carpet ripped from a 1970s rec room. “This is ten thousand dollars?”
“It’s a statement piece,” I impart, though even I can hear the doubt in my own voice.
“It’s meant to cause discussion. Provoke a reaction.
” The truth is, it’s just ugly. This kind of monstrosity is how you end up on worst-dressed lists with snarky captions about fashion victims. “I wouldn’t wear that. ” Ever.
Gunnar looks from the dress to me, a playful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But you’re going to,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. He removes the garment bag, letting it fall to the floor, before holding the dress out to me one-handed. “Because now I’m curious.”
I look at him sideways. “Gunnar—”
“Clothes off, baby girl,” he interrupts, his voice sliding into the gravelly tone that makes my knees weak. “I want to see you in this one… and then watch you try on the others.”
Before I can argue further, he walks from the closet and crosses my bedroom to the chair in the corner.
He grabs the velvet-and-carved-wood arms and drags it across the floor.
The legs make a soft scraping sound against the floor as he positions it before the double doors of my enormous walk-in closet.
He drops into it, his legs spread slightly as he shifts forward and rests his forearms on his thighs. “I’m waiting,” he muses, looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
I know this game, the rules, and the stakes.
Yet every time he issues a command, stripping away pretense and my autonomy, I feel the same rush of heat deep in my core.
I reach for the hem of my T-shirt, and I pull it over my head in one smooth motion.
The air in the room is cool, raising goosebumps along my arms and across my chest. Behind me, I unclasp my simple white lace bra and let it fall to the floor.
“I’m starting to feel like this was a ploy to get me out of my clothes,” I tease. My voice comes out breathy, betraying my attempt to hide my arousal.
“Less talking.” Gunnar’s lips curve wickedly, as his stormy-blue eyes roll over my bare skin. “More undressing.”
I unbutton my jeans, shimmying them down my hips, and step out of them. I’m left before him in only my underwear, a pair of little pink panties I know he likes.
Gunnar’s gaze is hungry, raking over every inch of my exposed skin with a thoroughness that makes me feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful.
I can see the effect I’m having on him. His jeans have grown tight, and his hands are curled into loose fists as if he’s restraining himself from reaching out to touch me.
After carefully removing the ugly dress from the hanger, I step into it.
The fabric is stiff against my skin, the metallic paint scratching slightly.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror as I zip up, and I shake my head, suppressing a laugh.
It is somehow even worse than I thought it would be.
The gold paint catches the light in patches, making me look like I rolled in something while the orange shag skirt adds bulk in places no one wants bulk.
I step out of the closet, and Gunnar’s expression is priceless. His eyebrows are raised, and his mouth is slightly open as a laugh rattles from him. It’s real and bold, crinkling the corners of his eyes and transforming his face from dangerous to devastating.
“Jesus Christ,” he exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t even have words for how awful that is.”
“I told you I wouldn’t wear it,” I huff, but I’m laughing, too, feeling lighter than I have in days. Weeks, maybe.
“Take it off,” he commands, his laughter fading but his eyes still bright. “Next one.”
I retreat to the closet, shedding the monstrosity and reaching for the second garment bag.
This one is heavier. When I unzip it, I find a halter dress.
It’s a beautiful milky white, covered in intricate beadwork that catches the light.
The back plunges so low, it will reveal the dimples at the base of my spine. And probably my ass crack.
I slip it on, and when I turn to check the mirror, I can’t believe how good it looks.
The dress clings to every curve, the beads creating a texture that demands touch, and the back is indeed scandalous.
But as expected, it plunges to the crack of my ass, a detail only accentuated by a thin strand of beads.
I walk out to where Gunnar waits, and his expression shifts from amusement to dark and possessive.
His eyes travel from my face down my throat to where the halter cups my breasts.
“Turn.” He swirls his finger in the air.
I do a slow spin, letting him see the back.
I hear his sharp intake of breath as his eyes follow the line of my spine to the dimples beneath it.
He tightens his hands on his knees as he shifts in his seat, undoubtedly to adjust the discomfort of his unmistakable arousal. “That’s more like it.”
Heat brushes over my cheeks as his stare bores through me.
I walk back into the closet, my hips swaying far more than necessary.
After removing the scandalous dress and rehanging it, I open the third bag.
I don’t even know whether I can call this one a gown.
It is nothing but black lace, an unlined slip dress that is sheer in all the places that matter.
I hold it up, and through the delicate lace, I can clearly see the outline of my hand.
Watching me examine the dress through the archway, Gunnar shifts in his seat.
The stiff velvet groans as he spreads his legs wider to accommodate his ever-growing desire.
“As much as I like those little pink panties you’re wearing.
I don’t think they go with that dress.” My racing heart thuds as I hook my fingers in the waistband of my underwear and shove them down my thighs, letting them fall to the floor around my ankles.
I step out of them and kick them away. “That dress is going to suit you,” he proclaims, clearing his throat as his voice drops even lower.
“Especially with that smooth pussy I’ve been keeping bare for me. ”
I blush, heat flooding my face and chest before spreading down my body like wildfire.
Gunnar shaves me almost daily, turning what was once a mundane grooming task into a ritual of intimacy and dominance.
He uses the razor with careful precision, spreading me open with his fingers and making me hold still while he removes every trace of hair before testing his work with his mouth and tongue.
With my back to him, I step into the dress. The lace whispers against my skin. I know that when I turn around, the thin barrier between the man he shows me and the monster he keeps caged will dissolve completely.