‘Thank you, I’ll take it.’ The dress is easier to remove than it is to get on. I hand it over to the assistant and get myself dressed.
When I exit the changing rooms, Jesse is inspecting some very high heels. The look of mystification on his beautiful face makes me melt slightly, but then he spots me, shoves them back and scowls at me. And I remember…I’m furious with him. I get my purse from my bag and hand my credit card over. Five hundred quid for a dress? It is way too extravagant, but I’m being defiant. And I called him a child? This is ridiculous. Where did he get the idea that he has the right to call the shots of my wardrobe choice?
The assistant begins wrapping the dress in all sorts of fancy tissue paper. I want to tell her to shove it in a bag and be done with it, before Jesse resorts to ripping it apart. But I fear the poor girl might lose her job if she did something as common as that. So, I resign myself to shutting up and waiting patiently while she does her thing.
After an age of wrapping, folding, tucking in and punching in my pin number, the assistant hands me the bag. ‘Enjoy the dress, Madam. It really did look lovely on you.’ She flicks a cautious glace at Jesse.
‘Thank you,’ I smile. Now, how to get out of the store? I turn, finding Jesse filling the doorway, still scowling and still brooding. I walk with purpose, I don’t really feel, and stop in front of him. I’m really crapping myself, but I won’t let him see that. ‘Excuse me.’
He looks at me, then at the bag. ‘You’ve just wasted hundreds of pounds. You’re not wearing that dress.’ he says emphatically.
‘Excuse me, please.’ I accentuate the please. His lips press into a straight line as he shifts his tall, lean body to the side, leaving a gap for me to pass.
Stepping out onto the street, I head towards the office. I’ve only had forty minutes, but I’m not spending the rest of my lunch break arguing over touching in public and my wardrobe choice. Today started so well…when I was complying.
I feel his hot breath on my neck. ‘Zero,’
I yelp as I’m yanked into an alleyway and shoved up against a wall. His lips smash to mine, his hips grinding against my lower stomach, his raging arousal evident beneath the button fly of his jeans. He’s turned on by getting cranky over a dress? I suppose it’s better than being tortured. I try and resist the invasion of his tongue…a little. Ah…it’s no good. I’m instantly consumed by him and the need to have him all over me. I link my arms around his neck, accepting him willingly, absorbing his intrusion and meeting his tongue, stroke for stroke.
‘I’m not going to let you wear that dress.’ he moans into my mouth.
‘You can’t tell me what I can and can’t wear.’
‘Stop me.’ he challenges.
‘It’s just a dress.’
‘It’s not just a dress on you, Ava. You’re not wearing it.’ He pushes his groin into my lower stomach, a clear demonstration of what the dress does to him, and I know he’s thinking other men will have the same reaction.
Crazy man.
I exhale wearily. Buying the dress is one thing. Putting it on and making it to the pub, is another challenge entirely. I’m twenty six years old, and he said himself I have great legs. I decide I’m not going to get anywhere with this. Not now, anyway. I do, however, intend to discuss, in full detail, his illusions that he has control over my wardrobe. In fact, we need to talk about his unreasonableness full stop – but not now. I only have twenty minutes left of my lunch break, and I highly expect that conversation to take considerably longer.
‘Thank you for the cake.’ I say as he kisses every inch of my face.
‘You’re welcome. Did you eat it?’