Unleashed: Declan & Kara (Unleashed #1-4; Beg for It #1) (44 page)

I grew quiet, focused
on my salad. What were those red things in it anyway, sort-of chewy
and nutty?

“Goji berries,”
Declan whispered to me.

I still gave him a
quick smile, but really I was thinking what was up with that lady?
Was that the type of woman Declan spent time with now? She’d be
right at home in his private plane. They certainly seemed to know
each other well. Maybe all this connection I felt with Declan was in
my head, the sad concoctions of a lonely woman who desperately needed
a reason for this agreement to be OK, to mean more than it did—a
raunchy, debauched week. Paid to do his bidding.

“Let’s get out of
here.” Declan rose, napkin down on the table, hand outstretched to
me.

“Happy to.” I
brought my hand to his and away we went.

§

The next couple of
hours passed like a montage from a romantic movie. Arm in arm, Declan
and I strolled through Central Park on the sunny June day, pausing to
watch street performers dancing on roller skates or drumming on
overturned plastic buckets. When I exclaimed over a horse-drawn
carriage, Declan insisted and we hopped on one ourselves.

“It’s like the
whole city’s a carnival!” I exclaimed, marveling over a man
walking along on stilts. “Is it like this all the time?”

“Pretty much,”
Declan confirmed.

The driver delivered
commentary in a full, brash accent that he explained was “all
Bronx, sweetheart.” We passed a glassy expanse of flat water
featuring model sailboats. A couple of little boys shouted over two
that raced, neck and neck. I took it all in, the tall, ornate stone
edifices of the Upper East Side, the cooler-than-school teens with
tattoos and piercings and dyed green hair.

Declan wrapped an arm
around me. I liked the feel of it, possessive, protective.

“This afternoon you
have a four o’clock appointment for a fitting.”

“A what?”

“I’m taking you to
a gala Saturday night. It’s black tie. You’ll need a ball gown,
and the gown will need to be fitted.”

“A fitting for a ball
gown.” I shook my head, amazed by the strange mix of familiar and
new. He was still Declan, the man I’d first met when he was just
21, already hardened with the demeanor of a stray, scruffy and ill at
ease. The same Declan who knew our local diner and had spent so many
days and nights on my family’s ranch. Now he talked about an
entirely different world with the expertise of a native tour guide.

“I’ll have to leave
you for a couple hours,” he apologized. “I have some meetings.
But I’ll meet you later at the dressmakers.”

“I’m sure you have
a lot of work to do.” I suddenly felt self-conscious, like I’d
been monopolizing his time and wasting it. “I don’t want you to
feel like you have to show me around. I’m sure I can find something
to do here in the Big Apple.”

“I’m happy here
with you.” When he said it, it felt real.

He walked me to the
entrance of what he called the MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art.
Encouraging me to look around, he explained my fitting was only a few
blocks away.

I had to admit, a lot
of that museum went right over my head. White-on-white, blocks
stacked up, I didn’t get it. But the colors and faces in a painting
by someone named Klimt reminded me of an old quilt we had. I knew
someone in the family had made it, but not who, and something about
that painting made me feel exactly like I was looking straight at it.
I spent a while looking at a Pablo Picasso painting called
Repose
.
He’d done it way back in 1908. The angles and lines, the woman’s
closed eyes and the way she rested her head in her hand, I wanted to
know her story, why she felt so sad and exhausted.

But the one that
knocked me way back, where I spent about 20 minutes just sitting was
Vincent Van Gogh’s
Starry
Night
. I’d heard about him, how he’d cut his ear off
and sent it to a woman. That kind of story stayed with you. But I’d
never seen one of his paintings before in person. The vivid swirls,
the strokes of color, so vibrant and thick and teeming with life. I’d
never studied art, lacked all the right words to describe it, but
something in it moved me, deep. I’d looked up at starry nights
before and felt just like he did, like this painting made me feel,
enveloped in the universe. I guessed that was why they called it a
masterpiece.

§

At four o’clock I
managed to get to the address Declan had given me. It didn’t seem
right. I didn’t see the name of the store anywhere, nothing
displayed in the windows, just a golden plaque to the side of large,
ornate, heavy doors embossed with small letters: la modiste. I
pressed the doorbell.

A tiny woman with a bun
met me at the door. Instead of the tight, fragile look of the elderly
woman at the restaurant, she bustled with vivacious energy. She moved
with the grace of a ballerina yet possessed the stern command of a
governess.

“Miss Brooks?” She
spoke with a thick accent that I couldn’t immediately place.

“Yes.”

“This way.”

Before I knew what was
happening, she had me in a back room standing up on a block, stripped
down to panties and a bra in front of a three-way mirror. An
assistant measured me all over with a cloth tape while the older
woman surveyed me from various angles. Based on the amount of tsking
and tusking, I could tell she didn’t like what she saw.

“Four days! Not
nearly enough time. I cannot work miracles!”

“I’m sorry,” I
stammered. “I didn’t know I was coming to New York.”

“And this!” She
brought a hand to my bosom. “What am I supposed to do with this!
You are Kate Upton here.”

“Oh, no, I’m not—”
At least I stopped before I finished explaining I wasn’t actually
the model Kate Upton. I realized she was using the comparison as an
insult. But all words of protest fled my mind when another assistant
walked into the room through a side door carrying a red, full-length
evening gown straight out of a movie.

“Arms up!” the tiny
woman commanded me. “Stomach in!” As they brought the dress down
over my head, I felt like a slab of beef, and a fat one at that.

But then I saw myself
in the dress. Strapless, it dipped down into a V in front with
embroidery and beading along the edges. It came in at my waist and
traveled down to my ankles with a slit up to mid-thigh. I looked
ready for the Oscars.

“What? How?” I
started to bring my hands to the fabric.

The mean tiny lady
screamed, “No touching!”

I brought my hands up
like she was the police.

“Arms at your sides.”
An assistant tugged both sides of the dress around my back. “Corset!”
The head dressmaker yelled like she was calling for a medic. Another
assistant went running.

I didn’t care how
mean these ladies were, how much trash they talked about my curves.
If they made me look this good before the dress really even fit me,
they could do whatever they wanted. They were magical fairies.

The phone rang and the
mean lady disappeared to answer it. Or torture someone in another
room, either scenario seemed plausible.

“Who are you with?”
the assistant asked, a slew of pins in her mouth as she fit the dress
to my curves.

“Declan Hunt?” I
answered, unsure whether I’d heard her correctly.

“Declan Hunt,” she
repeated, shaking her head. “Never heard of them.”

“Not them, him.”

“What?”

“What did you ask
me?” I felt like I was in the middle of a joke but couldn’t get
the punch line.

She spit out the pins
into her palm and tried again. “Your agency? Who represents you?”

“Oh, I’m not, I
don’t have anyone representing me.”

“No?” She shrugged.
“I assumed. Madame does not fit a dress for everyone, the
bourgeoisie.”

“She is VIP at the
gala,” Madame explained, entering the room again.

“I am?” I asked.

“Mais oui,” she
nodded. Oh, so they were French. I felt dumb for not knowing it right
away, now it seemed so obvious. “Monsieur Hunt is hosting.”

“He is?” Now I
really felt dumb. Declan wasn’t just taking me to a black tie gala
at the Met, he was hosting it? What kind of a crazy big shot was he?

“Step into these.”
An assistant brought four-inch heels to my feet and I slid into them.

“Ah.” Madame let
out a satisfied sigh, hands at my hips. I guessed she was allowed to
touch. “The cameras will adore you in this.” Looking into the
mirror, I had to wonder who was looking back at me in the glass. All
curves and waves of fabric, I felt like a Greek goddess sculpted out
of marble. Then what she said hit me.

“Cameras?”

“Ooh yes,” the
assistant murmured by my side, nodding.

“You know, the
bloggers.” Madame said it like ‘blug-airs’, emphasis on the
second syllable. I liked the French pronunciation better than the
English.

“Off! And on!”
Madame yelled, in command again, simultaneously ordering the dress
off and the corset to follow in its place.

As they laced me into
the hard, ribbed structure, I felt a new kinship with Scarlett O’Hara
and her pursuit of the 18 ½ inch waist. It wasn’t happening. What
was happening looked pretty X-rated to me, though, my breasts getting
pushed up into ripe, plump ice cream scoops above the lacey corset
cone. The punishing lingerie whittled my waist into something tiny
and petite—at least in comparison with the rest of me. My hips and
buttocks swelled beneath in an exaggerated figure 8.

“We’ll take that.”
Declan stood in the doorway, liking what he saw.

I flushed. How long had
he been standing there?

“Monsieur Hunt!
Comment ça va?” Madame gave him a kiss on each cheek. He had to
bend way down to let her do it.

“Ça va bien. Your
work is perfection, as always.” He strode toward me, admiring. So
now he spoke French? And he’d seen her work a bunch of times? How
many women had he purchased corsets for, exactly?

“I like you in this.”
His eyes met mine in the mirror and he gave me a low, wicked smile.

“I am so sorry. We
have much work to do.” Madame brought her hands together in two,
sharp claps. Her assistants hopped to life, gathering the tools of
their trade and hustling out of the room. “Take it with you.” She
gestured toward the corset. “But bring it when you come for the
final fitting. Thursday, three o’clock.” She nodded at us, left
the room and closed the door behind her.

Only Declan and I
remained, me on full display in a naughty corset before a full-length
3-way mirror.

“Turn around for me.”
He stood, arms crossed against his chest. He’d changed into a suit
for his afternoon meeting and it had morphed him into a businessman,
sharp and ready in pinstripes for a corporate takeover. I turned,
slowly, still wearing the heels they’d given me. Suddenly the
atmosphere in the room changed. Gone was the bustling energy of a
dress fitting. Instead the air crackled with erotic tension. My
breathing constrained in the corset, I felt almost light-headed under
his perusal. I was glad I still had on my panties, though they were
all lace and didn’t cover much.

“This is very nice.”
He strode over and brought his fingers to the tops of my breasts,
stroking the exposed flesh. My breath made them rise and fall under
his touch. He brought his tongue down to the valley between my
breasts and began to lick hot fire along my skin. Panting, I twined
my fingers through his hair, instantly molten under his spell.

Bringing his hands
around, he kneaded his fingers into the swell of my buttocks, forcing
me up and against his groin. Through those dark, conservative suit
pants I felt the bulge of his thick, hard erection. I groaned with
need.

“Over by the mirror,”
he ordered, his voice hoarse and gruff. “Get down on all fours.”
He walked over to the door where the dressmakers had exited and
turned the knob to lock it.

“Declan, what are you
doing? We’re in a shop!” He kept going about his business,
locking the remaining door through which he’d entered.

Then he strode toward
me. “We’re all alone in this room. They’re busy with other
clients.” He pointed over to the floor by the mirrors. “Now get
down on all fours.”

Shocked by my body’s
response to his order, unable to believe I was complying, I moved
over toward the mirrors. What was he planning? What was I doing,
getting down onto my hands and knees for this dominant man?

After I got down on all
fours, Declan stroked me in approval. “Yes.” His voice and his
hand along my back made my pussy throb with heat. He stayed standing,
bringing his hand up to my shoulders, down across the corset, along
the curve of my ass. “So good, Kara. I like seeing you tied into
this.” His hands made me so aware of my body, my exposed skin, how
much I craved him.

Tracing the cut at the
bottom, leaving all of my ass on display, he admired the corset.
“Madame does excellent work.”

“Have you bought
corsets for a bunch of other women?” The angry, jealous question
left my lips before I could stop it. Declan’s hand stilled. He
kneeled at my head and tilted my face in his hand, my chin resting in
his palm. Bringing a thumb to my bottom lip, he toyed with it.

“Jealous words,
Kara.” After a brief pause, he dipped his head down and took my
mouth, searing me with a kiss. I kissed him back, hungry, needing his
touch, his hands, his lips on me. He tasted so good, felt so hot and
hard.

Breaking from me, he
still held my face in his hand. “I know high-quality work when I
see it. I demand it. I expect nothing less.”

“So you have bought
corsets for other women.” I didn’t want to feel jealous, but I
couldn’t stop myself. My feelings ran away from me. They always had
with Declan.

“I’m a good
client,” he confirmed. Anger surged, scorching through me, and he
saw it. “Jealous, Kara? That’s naughty.” We looked into each
other’s eyes, both worked up, both breathing hard. He pointed at
the floor. “Hands down. Ass up.”