Total pages in book: 190
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 181992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 910(@200wpm)___ 728(@250wpm)___ 607(@300wpm)
Everything in me did a double-take. “What? Why?”
“I just do,” he replied, his expression giving nothing away.
I stared at him, sheer surprise leaving me at a loss for words. Some women might have inwardly balked at even the thought of agreeing. But I found a weird kind of empowerment in overriding societal expectations. And, in my opinion, I was far too old to worry about what other people would think—especially with regards to something they’d never even learn about me.
What mostly stopped me from being inclined to respond with a hell no was that he generally asked very little of me outside of sex. It was as if he didn’t wish to want anything from me—it was all part of his instinct to hold himself apart from me, I supposed. So to have him not only invested in what I wore but wanting to choose it felt good rather than weird.
There was something else as well. “I’m intrigued as to what you’d choose.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“You won’t otherwise tell me?”
“No.” One corner of his mouth did a slight upward tilt—he knew I didn’t like to have my curiosity go unsatisfied.
“Will it be something uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Will it be something I already own?”
“Yes.”
“Will it be appropriate for the occasion and weather?”
Dax sighed. “You’re overthinking this. Don’t. It’s a simple request. You are free to say no. But if you agree to it,” he added, pitching his voice low, “it would please me.”
I pinched my bottom lip, struggling to understand his motivations. If it was in the context of BDSM, where Tops often liked to dress their subs, I’d get it. Or if it was a case of two people in a solid relationship who enjoyed exploring their identities together, I’d understand. But this … yeah, I was just stumped.
I didn’t have a problem with allowing him to pick my outfit. He wasn’t asking for anything bizarre. And it wasn’t like I was signing a contract in blood. I could always change my mind if I wasn’t happy with his selection. I’d simply like some clarification on what had spurred him to make the request. But I could see from his expression that I wasn’t going to get it.
Did I want to please him? Yes. I saw no need to deny it to myself; I didn’t perceive it as a weakness. What was weak about wanting someone to feel good? And I’d gotten the impression that not a whole lot of people had ever been truly interested in making Dax feel “good,” which was far too sad. He was used to others instead judging him, misreading him, condemning him, lying about him, or trying to change him.
Consenting to his request might not be considered normal by many, but there was nothing truly conventional about my marriage to Dax. We weren’t going to ever have the connection and rapport that most couples did, so there was little sense in worrying about whether we behaved as they did.
I waved at my rail of clothing, stepped back, and crossed my arms over my chest. “Okay, have at it.”
A hint of satisfaction blotted his eyes, and then he turned to my selection. Hangers clanged and fabric rustled as he casually scanned it. There was nothing indecisive about Dax—he made quick, efficient decisions in all aspects of his life. And that apparently included when it came to matters of my clothing, because he didn’t hem, haw, or dawdle.
He picked out my lemon belted shirt dress that featured a slight thigh split—a solid choice, in my opinion. He didn’t stop there. Nope. He selected my lacy, lemon lingerie and also my white high heels that had a strip of yellow.
As he spread the items on my bed—with the exception of my shoes, which he placed on the floor—I hummed. “Who knew a fashionista lived within you?”
The touch of exasperation in his gaze only made me smile.
“And you’re not going to tell me why it ‘pleases’ you that I’d agree to this?” Because it was killing me that I couldn’t figure it out.
He must have sensed it, because his lips twitched into a taunting smile. “No.”
Asshole.
“What do you want for breakfast this morning?” he asked. “I’ll order it now while you dress.”
“Hmm, biscuits and gravy will go down nicely.”
With a crisp nod, he disappeared.
I shed my robe, slipped on my outfit, gathered my hair into a high ponytail, and then dabbed on some makeup. Done, I left the room, smiling as the doorbell rang. The food had arrived. Awesome timing.
I descended the stairs, more than ready to—
“Sheriff,” Dax greeted, stood near the open front door, his broad build blocking my view.
My step faltered. Sheriff?
“Dax,” rumbled another voice. Lowe. “I was hoping I could have a few minutes of your time.”
It was a declaration of intent, not a request. But there was an almost imperceptible note of discomfort there. Well, who’d be at ease with making demands of Dax?