Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(34)
Author: Jen Frederick

She gives me a wan smile and leads me up a circular staircase and into a fairly large room. There is a garment bag with “Barney’s” lettered discreetly on the left side hanging on the back of the door and a shopping bag in the corner. A robe and slippers are laid out on a massage table, and to the left is a hair station. Apparently everything is done in this one room. No mingling with the masses for me.

“Please remove all of your clothing and jewelry and press this when you are ready.” She hands me an iPad with a big red button that says “Attendant.”

Over the next two hours I’m rubbed down and then done up. Inside the garment bag is a top that could be called a sweatshirt. It has a ribbed bottom and cuffs but, except for the front panel, the entire shirt is made of a heavy, deep-red lace in a beautifully modern floral pattern. The neckline is wide, giving it a tendency to slip off my shoulder. As I root around in the bag, I am unsurprised to find that there is no bra—only a pair of sheer red panties with tiny bows all over them. I slip on the delicate panties and then pull on the silk shorts that I also find inside the bag. They are black with tiny pinstripes mimicking a man’s suit pants. I’m relieved that they aren’t booty shorts and actually manage to keep all the private parts of my body fully covered, even if I bend over.

The shoes are black with lace fretwork running around the sides and up the middle. A delicate strap encircles my ankle. There are bangles for my wrists and a pair of red stone earrings. I wait to put those on.

“That’s a gorgeous outfit,” my stylist Robin comments as she winds my hair around a hot curling iron. After my massage, a team of people trooped in. Robin is the hair stylist and Mark is the makeup artist. Robin and Mark take turns holding my chin and nodding to each other about how my eyebrows need help and my hair color has no depth. Limp as a noodle from the rubdown, I endure the inspection without comment.

“First hair,” Robin declares, and Mark leaves to round up more tools and the eyebrow artist. They actually have someone designated only for eyebrows. I try not raising mine when I hear that.

“Thanks.”

“Your legs are so toned. Pilates?” she asks.

“Cycling,” I say and then hurriedly add, “Cycling class.” Bike couriers can’t afford three-thousand-dollar outfits to go to a nightclub. Whoever shopped for Ian had failed to remove the price tags.

“Going somewhere tonight?”

“The Aquarium?”

“Ohhh,” she breathes out in awe. “Private party?”

“Don’t think so.”

She nods at me in understanding, although I don’t know what we’re agreeing to. “They always say its closed to private parties, like at 1 Oak, but it’s all who you know, isn’t it?”

“Yes, probably.” She’s likely wanting to know who it is that I know, but I’m not drawing connecting lines for anyone.

We chat a little more about the city’s best nightclubs, although it’s really just Robin talking about all the hot places she’s heard of or went to and me nodding along.

After she’s made my hair look voluminous with big waves spilling down my back, Mark comes in with a team of people. One is focused on my feet and another on my hands. The eyebrow artist advances toward me with a tool of shiny implements strapped to her waist. I close my eyes and tip my head back because there’s nothing else I can do.

Once they’re done, I see that I look like an entirely different person. My cheekbones look more pronounced and my lips look fat and juicy. They also feel like they’re tingling. “It’s all in the shading,” Mark says, whisking a brush one more time down my face.

“What if I sweat?” I ask, raising the tips of my fingers to a cheek that looks luminous even under the harsh lights. I didn’t realize that makeup could actually make a person look this good.

“Don’t,” he says shortly. “There’s blotting paper, a little foundation, blush, and gloss in your purse. Think of yourself as Cinderella. You’ll turn into a pumpkin if you stay out so long that you’re sweating.”

“I think it was the rats that turned into the pumpkin, not Cinderella,” I say. My eyes look huge and mysterious. I’m going to have to take a selfie because there’s no way I’ll ever look this good again.

“Cinderella got herself home before she started sweating, otherwise she would have been a pumpkin—a big, orange, sweaty, lonely pumpkin,” Mark declares.

I’m shooed off and downstairs the receptionist gives me a slight nod of approval, which I take to be just as effusive as clapping.

“Thanks, everyone,” I say and the team of specialists beams at me like I’m the best school project they ever put together.

Chapter 18

STEVE IS WAITING FOR ME outside in the gray car. When I crawl in, I notice that Ian is sitting right behind the driver’s seat. The light illuminates the interior for a few seconds after Steve closes the door. I wait, a little breathlessly, to see Ian’s reaction.

“So I guess we’re staying in tonight,” he finally says when the light flickers out.

“What?” I ask¸ confused.

“You’re far too beautiful to be out in public.” He slides a finger around the boatneck opening of my sweatshirt, and we both watch as his finger pulls the fabric down so that the ball of my left shoulder is exposed. “Clearly I need to give better instructions about what’s appropriate attire. No bra, Tiny?”

His finger is circling my skin in some pattern known only to him. But that small contact is making me throb in a dozen other places. I slide closer to him, close enough to feel the fine wool of his trousers brush against my bare leg. I want to slip off my sandal and run my bare foot up the entire length of his leg. “No,” I croak out. “You’d see it in the back.” I turn slightly so he can see that the back of my shirt is just open lacework.

His hands sweep aside my hair to reveal my braless back. “How do your br**sts feel without their restraint?” he asks, sliding two hands down my shoulder blades and then around to rest underneath my br**sts. With a quick tug, I tumble backward so that I am leaning against his chest. I squirm a bit, wishing that there wasn’t his suit coat, shirt, and undershirt separating us. His mouth finds the tender skin where my neck and shoulder meet and he sucks, causing me to cry out in desire.

“God, Ian,” I moan.

“Your br**sts,” he says again, “tell me how they feel.” His hands move downward and then sweep underneath my shirt. My br**sts strain toward him, my ni**les ache for his touch, but he doesn’t move and he won’t until I give him what he wants.