The Woman in the Back Room (Costa Family)

"Ugh," I grumbled, pulling out the dress, and laying it across the bed.

I didn't know what the problem was. It wasn't like I had any issues with my body. Many of the things I wore were tight as well. But there was something about the soft fabric, about the femininity of it all that almost, well intimidated me.

Things that were soft and feminine had never been positive in my life.

As the child of a under-protective sex worker, I'd always tried to wear things that were baggy and boyish, not wanting any of the men that were constantly around to think of me as girly, as someone they'd want to fuck. Because I knew my mother would have let them have me.

Then, when I escaped that hell, I'd found myself in a male-dominated world where masculinity was the standard, and femininity was forbidden.

I'd shaped my whole identity around the idea that being too girly was dangerous or undesirable.

Maybe, just this once, it would be okay to let all those preconceived notions go. I mean, after all, if there was a man who I knew it was safe to be myself around—in all my good and bad forms—it was Santi.

Besides, I had a feeling the look in his eyes when I walked out in that dress would be priceless.

Decision made, I grabbed the small silk satchel inside the garment bag, finding a simple bra and thong set. All black. Lacy. Pretty and soft to the touch. I slid them on, then took myself to the bathroom with the small bag from the cosmetic store Celeste had also included.

I didn't have a great hand with makeup, but I knew how to darken my brows, curl and color my lashes, and glide the red lipstick over my lips.

I'd barely put any effort into it really, but the change was dramatic regardless.

Taking a deep breath, I let my hair down from its clip, letting it tumble down around my shoulders, knowing Santi had a thing for my hair.

Finally, I slid into the dress, then stepped back from the mirror to check out the effect.

I had to give it up to Celeste. The woman knew what she was doing.

I practically looked like a different woman.

Taking a deep breath, I moved out into the bedroom, glaring at the shoebox on the bed.

Celeste loved her icepick heels.

I was not looking forward to teetering around like a newborn foal, much to the delight of everyone around me. But I didn't own anything even remotely appropriate either.

So I opened the box.

"Oh, you're a saint among women," I mumbled to myself, breathing a sigh of relief when I found a pair of black kitten heels.

I strapped them on, took a deep breath, and made my way to the door.

Anticipation sizzled across every nerve ending as I moved out into the hall.

Then there was Santiago, looking as amazing as ever in his black suit.

His gaze had been on the watch he was putting on his wrist.

But at the quiet click of my low heels, his gaze lifted.

Oh, yeah.

That look in his eyes was worth any initial discomfort I'd felt about the outfit.

"You're beautiful," he declared, his words making my belly wobble.

"Thank you," I said, offering him what felt like a wobbly smile.

With the way he was looking at me, I almost wanted to say screw the date, and have him take me right back to bed.

Almost.

But I let him lead me downstairs instead, put me in his car, and drive me across town to a restaurant I'd never even heard of, but looked like it cost half a year's rent to eat at.

We were led toward the back where the tall-backed booths were situated, creating a small amount of privacy in the otherwise busy restaurant.

Where Santiago ordered us wine and entrees.

In Italian.

"That was way hotter than it should be," I declared when the waitress moved off, only eye-banging Santi a little bit. Hell, I couldn't even be mad. I would have eye-banged him in her position as well. And it didn't matter what she did, because his gaze was locked on me. "Do you know anything other than food in Italian?" I asked, scooting closer in the semicircle booth, leaning into him.

His arm slid around my lower back, fingers curling into my hip.

"I might know a couple of other things," he said, voice low, sexy.

"Oh yeah?" I asked shifting in my seat, more turned on than was appropriate for a public place.

"Mmhmm," Santi murmured, seemingly similarly affected as his hand started drifting downward, finding the risqué slit of my skirt, and teasing up the exposed skin of my thigh.

"Like what?" I asked as my thighs spread ever so slightly, a silent invitation. And Santi didn't even pause as his fingers slid inward, moved up my inner thigh, then pressed up against my barely-there panties.