36
CORA
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the black bag in my closet. Scarlet tissue paper peeks out of the top, a scandalous hint of what’s tucked away inside.
In the sex shop yesterday afternoon, I felt powerful. With Ivan’s fingers stroking all the places where I ached for him, his entire focus on my pleasure, I realized all at once how intoxicating control can be. How a person can come to crave it.
Then we left the shop.
The orgasm faded and Ivan retreated behind the icy walls of his mask. The man who, just minutes before, had been whispering soft commands in my ear, urging me to come apart for him, turned into a mute stone pillar.
The silent treatment carried on the rest of the day and through the night.
Even still, I woke up from a dream sweaty and panting and shamefully wet. I threw my covers back and stared at the door connecting our rooms, willing it to open.
Needless to say, that didn’t happen.
Now, I’ve moved on to staring at Plan B. The bag.
I drop my face into my hands and scrub at my tired eyes. “Pathetic. You are pathetic.”
And horny. That shoe fits, too.
We’re barely a full day into this celibacy arrangement and I’ve already creeped as close as physically possible to breaking the rule that I insisted on.
I don’t think we fully broke it, though. Ivan got me off, but he left with a visible bulge in his pants. He was not satisfied. It’s probably a technicality, but at this point, a win is a win.
I glance at the door again, wondering if he took care of himself last night. Maybe at the same time I was lying in bed thinking about him, he was holding himself and thinking about—
My face flames. I shake my head at my own thoughts. “Yep. Absolutely pathetic.”
If Ivan is taking care of himself—or having someone else take care of him, though I absolutely cannot let myself think about that—then why shouldn’t I work out my own tension? That’s what these toys are for, right? Ivan wouldn’t have bought me half that sex shop if he didn’t want me to use it.
I stand up, edging towards the bag of sex toys like maybe I can sneak up on them. I won’t have to admit I’m having dirty, sexy thoughts about my fake husband if the toys don’t see me coming.
I snort at my accidental pun and take another step closer to the bag.
It’s not breaking the rules if I only think about having sex with Ivan. I can ease the yearning in my core and make sure something like what happened in the back of that sex shop never happens again.
“This is what he wants,” I whisper to the dark, needy side of myself. “He wants me to think about him.” I blow out a breath and snatch the bag off the floor. “But there’s no harm in trying them out.”
I dig into the bag and grab the first thing I feel. Whatever it is, I’ll carry it into the bathroom with me, burn off some of this energy, and be done with it. With Ivan.
But as soon as I pull a toy out of the bag, the door between our twin bedrooms bursts open.
I yelp and drop the bag, but I tighten my grip on the toy like I might be able to wield it as a weapon.
As Ivan stomps toward me in flagrant violation of one of the two rules I requested—knock before you enter—he opens his mouth to say something.
Then he sees what’s in my hand. I glance at it, too, and wince.
I’m holding a rather long, quite girthy purple dildo.
“Sorry to interrupt you two,” he drawls.
I hurl the toy back in the bag and face him, my arms crossed over my chest. “You aren’t interrupting anything. I was just finding somewhere to put all this stuff.”
His other brow joins the first. My body burns with the awareness of what I’ve just said.
“Not somewhere to put it, like—” I groan. “A drawer or something! So Niles doesn’t see. What do you even want?”
He steps over the bag of toys and walks into my closet. “You need to get dressed.”
I follow him, pausing in the doorway. Being in confined spaces with Ivan Pushkin is my undoing, apparently.
“Despite what you think, I have managed to get ready on my own every day of my life up to this point. I don’t need you barging in here and—”
“We have an interview today.” He throws a bright green dress at me and then spins around and digs through my top drawer. “It came up last minute.”
“What kind of interview?”
“An engagement announcement.” He turns around, a pale pink strapless bra dangling from his fingers. “Wear this and that,” he says, pointing to the dress. “Nothing else.”
He looks through my shoe options with authority. I would have assumed he’d be lost when it came to women’s fashion, but he quickly dismisses a pair of chunky heels, a wedge, and a loafer in favor of a nude heel with a fabric tie around the ankle.
Much to my irritation, it will go perfectly with the dress.
“I don’t need your help choosing an outfit.” I edge around him and pull out the top drawer again, digging for the underwear that match the bra.
Ivan slams the drawer shut and leans against it. His biceps bulge against the sleeves of his black t-shirt. “I said ‘nothing else.’ Was that not clear?”
“I thought you meant I shouldn’t wear a jacket or something.”
“Obviously not. A jacket would look ridiculous with this dress.” He pinches the ruffled chiffon sleeves. “I meant what I said. Nothing else.”
My eyes widen as the meaning sinks in. “What part of an engagement announcement requires me to go commando?”
“The part where I required it of you,” he says coolly. “The car leaves in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”
He swoops out of the room as quickly as he entered, but I swear his pants are fitting him tighter in the crotch area than they were when he first walked in.
The door closes and I look down at the clothes in my arms. The outfit Ivan chose for me, sans proper undergarments.
Maybe he wants to avoid panty lines for the photos, I think.
Then I hold the dress up and realize that won’t be an issue. The dress has a fitted bodice, but the skirt and sleeves are light and airy. Layers of tulle and chiffon that flounce and dance as I swing the dress.
I hook on the bra and am tempted to grab the panties anyway. How would he know if I followed his orders or not? It’s not as if he is going to check…right?
Ivan has told me he does nothing without a reason. Is it possible that the reason behind this outfit choice is simply that he likes it?
He plays cool. He plays aloof. He plays distant.
But maybe Ivan Pushkin is spending his nights the way I am: tossing and turning and wondering what’s going on on the other side of the adjoining door.
I pull the dress on and delude myself into thinking that this is all part of some plan. If Ivan is more attracted to me, then it means he’ll be a better fake husband. Knowing I’m not wearing anything under my dress will make him more…attentive to me. It’s pure business. Pure strategy.
As strategic as the flirty, innocent dress he has me dolled up in. Between my hair twisted into a side braid and the silhouette of the dress, I look like I jumped straight out of the 1940s. It’s oddly wholesome for the fiancée of the notorious Ivan Pushkin.
As far as anyone can see, I’m innocent and naive. The perfect target. What they don’t know—what I’m finally starting to figure out—is that I’m in on the plan, too.
On my way out the door, I swipe on a bold red lipstick.
It fits how I’m beginning to feel.