“Come back to the table and sit down,” he urged.
“I’m no longer into this evening.”
“Maybe you just need a little persuasion.” He pulled back the curtain of her thick, synthetic curls and kissed her neck. She shivered and he stiffened.
Why didn’t she feel anything but revulsion? “Let me go.”
Several tense seconds passed until he finally released his hold while giving her a grin that made her skin crawl, but he didn’t step aside. He pressed her against the edge of the granite counter, caging her with his weight and his thick arms on each side of her. “Dinner wasn’t done.”
“I was though.”
“Not another one of these nights I hope.”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t play Miss Priss, sweetheart. You know I don’t like the attitude,” he snorted.
How he chalked her emotions up to being “prissy” sent her closer to an unwavering edge. “I don’t like the attitude either. Or the games, so I won’t be needing this tonight.” Reaching up, she dragged off her wig and pushed past one steely arm, happy he didn’t resist. Taking a step away from him, she threw the wig at his chest and he caught it. A slow smile lifted his lips, showing off an even row of pearly whites, but it didn’t deter from the iciness of his stare. She gave her natural brown hair a finger comb, sending the pins popping out and her wavy tresses tumbling around her shoulders. The feeling was liberating. “I’m tired of all this.” Her words came out in a plea. “The dressing up. Pretending all the time.”
“I’ve never forced you into doing anything you never wanted to do, baby.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles, pushing his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. “We’re together in this.”
“I don’t mind a little role playing, but this…wanting me to dress up in costume every night is getting old. I have more slinky lingerie in my closet than regular clothes. More wigs than a drag queen. I’m starting to think you can’t get a rise with me unless I’m dressed up like your personal hooker.”
“That’s not true. You’re sexy, but you know how you, dressed in a slutty dress and a bombshell wig, get me going.” He wagged his brows which made her skin crawl. He eased from his spot and took a step toward her, but she sidestepped him.
“Yeah, I do, and that’s my point. A man shouldn’t have to watch porn all the time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with porn. A lot of men watch it.”
“Yeah, but name one time in the last year that you haven’t had a movie playing while we were having sex.” She received only his silence. “Exactly.”
Dressing up to be someone she wasn’t didn’t entice her as it once did. Tapping into a fantasy world and losing more and more of her true self no longer settled well with her. When she’d met Rory, she was waitressing at a dingy diner, working double shifts to work her way through school. She had goals, but when he swept in, utilizing all his charm, his money, and his ease at making her feel special, her ten-year plan suddenly became a memory. At first, things had been a fairytale and he’d treated her like a princess, but every time she started talking about going back to college, he’d held her off for one reason or another. Lately, she felt less cherished and more like a dimwit, not from a lack of education, but from Rory’s underhanded comments.
At thirty-one, she wanted more than to be treated like a man’s sex-slave. She was smart. Too smart to hide her intelligence behind a rhinestone trimmed bra that made her thirty-four Bs look like thirty-six Cs. Or the spankies that reminded her she liked her chocolate and pasta. The last straw should have been when he, unknowingly to her, scheduled an appointment with the plastic surgeon for breast augmentation. And yet, she allowed him to fool her into believing he wouldn’t be so stupid again. If and when she decided to have “work” done she could make her own appointment, but he shouldn’t hold his breath. She was happy with who she was, although disgusted that she’d lost herself.
“Is this about the drinking, baby? I know I promised. I won’t drink anymore tonight,” his words were garbled.
“Now that the bottle is almost gone,” she murmured. He didn’t hear her, and she wouldn’t repeat it. Wynn marched out of the kitchen, up the winding back stairs that led to their master bedroom. The luxurious suite with the king bed, large upholstered headboard, the five-hundred count sheets, Egyptian carpet, and the expensive makeup lining the vanity once made her feel like a lucky woman, but now she saw that she was handcuffed to a life where she never fit in.
Rory was behind her, a little wobbly on his feet, but it didn’t take him long to catch up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m changing out of this dress and putting on something more comfortable.” She reached into her drawer and pulled out jeans, the ones with the holes and the missing pockets. She stuck each foot in and wiggled them up her legs, zipping and buttoning them. Pulling the dress over her head, she dropped the designer label onto the end of the bed and padded across the room to her walk-in closet. Switching on the light, she turned a full-circle, examining the racks and shelves. She had nothing to wear, in a sea of clothes, but she didn’t care much what she wore if she didn’t have to put the red, strapless dress back on. Choosing an old T-shirt left over from her pre-Rory days, she dragged on the comfortable cotton and tugged the hem down her hips, hearing a seam rip. He hated when she wore her thrift store finds, but in all honesty, she’d never been happy dressing in
