Page 67 of Cinderella Is Faking It

now I want to go to a sex club

Tabitha:

would it be weird if I showed up at the same one?

Defne:

Bring lube, too! Just in case.

And when I’d asked them what the hell one was supposed to wear to a sex club, since I was apparently not getting out of this, their responses had boiled down toleatherornothing. So half an hour before Beck was supposed to pick me up, I still stood in front of the mirror, trying to wiggle my black denim shorts in a way that was less Girl Scout and more Daisy Duke.

I didn’t pay attention when the doorbell rang, since I still had time, and my bralette made the shorts look even worse. This was more volleyball on the beach than it was... well, I still didn’t know how people actually dressed at a sex club. The knock on my door had me yelp and jump, scrambling for my cardigan. “Hold on!” I didn’t bother with the buttons, pulling the cardigan tight around my middle and folding an arm over it instead. “Yeah?” I opened the door just to see Victor raise his brows at me and tap his foot against the floor.

“I’m in the middle of getting dressed,” I hissed.

“Beckett is here,” he explained and nodded at the stairwell, jaw twitching.

“He’s early,” I protested as if that could fix it.

“I know.” He pressed his lips together. Right. Fuck. Where was Cordelia? If she was downstairs, Beck was one wrong door away from blowing this up. No wonder Victor seemed fidgety.

“Okay, uhm, send him up. I’ll keep him in here and we’ll be gone by nine, promise. I just need to finish getting dressed.”

“Nine.” Victor nodded, turned and jogged back down the stairs, obviously eager to get the untimely visitor out of the way.

A moment later, Beck appeared in his stead. His black hair wasn’t as neatly styled away from his face as usual, and his crisp light shirt had been replaced by a tight-fitted black one, sleeves rolled up, top buttons popped open, revealing a triangle of tan skin. And instead of suit pants, he wore jeans. Jeans. Black jeans that looked unfairly good on his long legs. “Are you checking me out, Blondie?”

“Get in here,” I hissed. The second he was within reach of the door I grabbed his arm and pulled him into my room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Wow, you’re very eager. Maybe we don’t need to go to Clandestine after all.”

“Shut up. You’re early.”

His eyes travelled down my body and he squinted at the loose legs of my shorts before he held up a sleek white bag with golden handles. “I had a feeling you might need a dress.”

“You bought me a dress?” I lifted the bag from his hand and walked over to my bed to dig through the crinkly tissue paper. What I pulled out was hardly a dress. It was a thin, black, shiny pleather tube with two golden zippers. One in the front. One in the back. Practical for easy access. Not that you needed it. The dress was short enough to be considered a top. “You bought me a sex club dress.” I turned around to find him running his finger over the books scattered on my window seat. God, his ass looked good in jeans. Whoa. Hold on. Delilah.Focus.

“Any good?” He held up a copy of a war journalist’s autobiography, wiping away any thoughts of his butt. Not the book I’d expected him to pick up considering The History of Pornography was right next to it. Then again, I’d only browsed one of his many bookcases.

“Yeah, it’s really good. It’s honest and shocking but so bleak,” I replied, “I cried like three times.”

“Mind if I borrow it?”

“No, go ahead.”

“You can’t wear underwear with that,” he said, pointing at the dress while pocketing the book. Jeez. That man and his topic changes.

“I won’t fit into that,” I replied, holding the dress up against my body. It was half my size.

“It’s stretchy. Go on.” He nodded at the open door to my bathroom.

“Why are you allowed to go fully dressed?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

“I’m taking my shirt off when we get there.”

“Oh.”

“Go.” He laughed and pointed at the bathroom again. At least he didn’t expect me to get naked in front of him. Grumbling, I trotted to the bathroom, testing the pleather’s stretch between my hands. Okay, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that.

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