Page 30 of Hostile Vows
When we burst into the sunshine, I weave into traffic and choke the throttle. The hold she has around my middle tightens a little when we dip sideways to turn. However, she doesn’t squeal, not like she used to. Part of me misses the thrill of knowing she’s into it. Only, now that I’m aware my ex-best friend owns a motorcycle in Ireland, I’m confident our past means more to her than she’s letting on.
It can’t be a coincidence that she bought a secondhand Honda in memory of those hair-raising adventures we’d gone on together.
Pulling up outside the doors of an independent fashion boutique, I switch off the engine. “You need more clothes. We’ll try this store. I think you’ll like the style.”
“Okay.” She dismounts before me and removes her helmet. “Can’t guarantee I'll like anything.” Her eyes narrow on the big glass windows. “I’m not a girly girl.”
I remove my helmet and run a hand through my hair to fix it in place. “I know exactly who my wife is. If you can’t find an outfit in there, we’ll try somewhere else. Although I’m confident you will.”
Her shoulders bounce as she sighs softly. “If I buy something, I’ll repay you from the first paycheck I earn.”
“This one is on me.” I get off the bike and slip the key into my pocket. “You didn’t wear a pretty wedding dress last night. So, let me buy you something to wear on this momentous day, Mrs. Souza.”
Eventually, she’d have her own credit card to use as she pleases, whenever she accepts our arrangement is permanent.
She scowls at me and shirks out of my jacket, folding it over her arm. “Fine.”
I shrug with indifference, place my hand to her lower back, and usher her indoors. My security team would be all over this store in a matter of seconds. While she was changing in the bathroom earlier, one of my guys had arranged for its temporary closure to prevent shoppers from getting in her way.
Sinéad’s subtle intake of air isn’t missed when she fingers the clothes hung on racks around the outer walls. There’s not much in here that wouldn’t suit her. She’d look good in anything, but mostly, she’d be regally supreme naked and covered in my cum.
I give her time to browse, type a quick message to Letterman, and prowl up behind her, leaning in close. “See anything you like?”
“Eh, maybe—yeah—there might be a few things.” she lies, her eyes wide and sparkly. She wants them all.
“Dré?” a female voice purrs from the opposite end of the shop floor.
I angle around to find a cute blonde squeezed into bubblegum-pink leggings, her ample tits pushed up like two ripe melons and razor-sharp talons twirling the tips of her hair. She’s holding an iPad as if she works here.
“It’s good to see you again.”
Again?
Christ—did I fuck her?
“Yeah.” I nod and swivel back to Sinéad, whose pale eyes are swirling with venom, directed right at my face.
“Do you bring all your whores here?” she hisses under her breath.
Rage boils my blood. “I’ve never stepped foot in this store until today.”
“Really? So, this isn’t you trying to mold me into your type? Next, you’ll have me wearing a bleach-blond wig and wearing a push-up bra.”
I cock my head, swallow my temper, and refrain from manipulating one of her braless tits. “There’s nothing about you that I’d change,” I mutter while her furious gaze cuts to the woman behind us. “Anyway, I found this place online. Look around, Sin. There are leather pants, jeans, t-shirts, and fucking handkerchiefs disguised as dresses.” I shake a hanger with a pair of skinny jeans. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t these similar to what you're wearing right now?” Her eyes glitter with something unreadable. “I’ve never taken a woman shopping before or even thought about doing it. So please, pick something and let’s get out of here. How about this—” I snatch the closest tiny black item folded on a shelf, throw it over my shoulder, and yank the hem of her top. “Take it off. Now.” I bark out the order.
She scowls. “No!”
My impulsive brain waves spike. I reach for the small knife in my jeans pocket and flick out the blade. “Remove the top or I’ll hack it to pieces while you’re still wearing it.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“That’s because you drive me fucking crazy.”
“At least let me go into a changing room.”
I scan the back wall and catch sight of the illuminated dressing room sign. Grabbing her arm, I manhandle her into a tight cubicle. Pulling across a heavy mustard curtain, I pivot around to face the both of us—her flustered expression and my frustrated reflection brandishing a knife, ready to slash her shirt to shreds.
In the second it takes me to crowd her, she spares me the fun of actually doing it. She hauls the white top up and over her head, those lush bare tits of hers in full view. My spine straightens and my elbow goes lax to lower the blade—the only part of me that isn’t hard for her.
