Page 41 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“Undies,” I call after him, grinning from ear to ear. “You need a full shakeup from head to toe, baby. Maybe the constriction caused by those horrible boxers is what’s making you so mean?”
He laughs, and I suck in a startled breath, knocked off balance. Something tells me that this little plan will backfire.
Spectacularly.
Chapter Fifteen
In theory, buying him a full range oftidy-whitieswith the intent of having him model them for me sounded fun. Like harmless, mischievous fun while ensuring that I maintain the upper hand in our strange, transactional relationship.
The second he steps from the closet wearing only a pair of black, low riding boxer briefs that, though tight, the salesman at the high-end boutique insisted were more comfortable than going bare, I realize that I’ve failed.
Game. Set. Match.
“Judging from how your jaw is on the floor, I assume you find these to your liking?” he suspects. Before I can think to stop him, he turns around, displaying his perfectly supported ass, and I can’t contain a groan.
“T-Take those off,” I spit out, making a mental note to steal every pair of the style I bought and return them. No future fake wife deserves to ever see him in something so sinful.
“Now?” He slips his fingers beneath the waistband, and I practically lunge from the bed and race past him, entering the closet with him on my heels.
“I want you to try on a suit,” I decide, spotting a selection he had already partially unpacked. Neatly tucked within a custom garment bag is a rich, brown suit of impeccable quality. Well, almost impeccable. “I had to settle for standard sizing since I don’t know your measurements, but they offer custom tailoring, so I took the liberty of including that in the price. Don’t have a heart attack when you see the bill.”
“I’ve seen it,” he says, coming to stand at my shoulder. I shiver as he reaches around me to finger the sleeve of the suit, testing the quality. “My estimations were on the higher end, but you came close.”
I grit my teeth, hating the warmth that spreads through my belly at his nearness. “Was that praise I heard you utter, Mr. Vadim?”
He doesn’t answer, and desperate to change the subject, I turn to face him and size him up.
“I’m pretty sure I guessed correctly,” I decide, scanning his chest. “Over there are dress shirts.”
Obeying my instructions, he promptly unpacks ten shirts in varying colors, ranging from gray to a golden shade of yellow. I made sure to spring for multiple fabrics, including silk and cotton as well. He eyes them all without a word of either agreement or dislike, but his fingers linger over a light blue selection more than the others.
“Blue and brown?” I cock my head and bite my lip in concentration. “An atypical pairing, but let’s try it.”
He proceeds to dress as I watch him shamelessly from a corner of the closet. When he finally inclines his head for my approval, I think I’m in danger of fainting.
“I need to ban you from wearing blue,” I blurt, stunned by how the color animates his features, making his smirk ten times smirkier. “We’re done modeling for now.” As he takes off the jacket, I re-enter the bedroom, my head spinning. “Where am I going to sleep—”
“I am done modeling,” Vadim says, alarmingly stern. “As for you. I insist that you show me at least one of the purchases that rang up to over ten grand atAtelier Noir.”
I nearly die hearing him mention that number out loud. To a normal person, it’s more money than could be feasibly spent on a purchase as frivolous as underwear. But to him, money literally seems meaningless. I don’t think it’s a front either. He says the numbers with no inflection. Ten dollars or ten grand doesn’t mean anything to him either way, and I wonder just how much money he truly has. I’m probably better off not knowing.
“Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of your selections?” he prods, knowing right where to aim to make me react.
“Fine!” I start toward the doorway, but he clears his throat.
“They’re in here.” He points to the closet, but I don’t have the energy to argue. I’ll remove them later.
Sure enough, in the other section of the closet, I find my comparably small arrangement of purchases. My first thought is to try on the more boring, practical bra and panty set I’d gotten. Sometime during my search through the packages, I change my mind and settle on the most daring and risqué.
Jim would die if I ever wore something like this for him—and not in a good way. Die. Come back to life and then restructure his sermons about the dangers of the flesh and how wives are inherently sinful creatures. I chuckle out loud, but it’s too close to the truth to be a real joke.
Given Vadim and his damn wall, I picture him eyeing me with no emotion, unmoved by the design either way. So I take my time to ensure I provide him with the full effect.
I strip my Chanel ensemble and hang it. Then I gingerly slip into a sheer emerald green bustier adorned with a dozen hand-sewn ebony roses that decorate the plunging neckline. Admiring myself in the mirror is a surreal experience. I’ve never felt sexier or more beautiful. A part of me despairs that—for now—this outfit will go woefully unappreciated.
No more sex with Vadim under any circumstances. That doesn’t mean I can’t needle the hell out of him, though.
“It’s a shame we won’t be fucking,” I declare as I strut into the bedroom, my hips swaying, head thrown back. “Because this little ensemble demands I be…fucked.”
