Chapter 183: "The Sex Bomb"

Aren stepped out of the dressing room wearing something that made Jordan feel as though he might faint on the spot.

For one stunned, catastrophic second, his mind refused to process what he was seeing.

Black leather clung desperately to the generous weight of her breasts, leaving an alarming amount of cleavage exposed.

Tight fishnet stockings hugged her legs, while the black shorts she wore were so tiny and high-waisted that they looked closer to bikini bottoms than anything that could reasonably be called shorts.

As a result, the curve of her buttocks was far more visible than Jordan was remotely prepared to see.

For several long, agonizing seconds, Jordan had no idea where to look.

Every direction seemed equally disastrous.

The only thing he knew for certain was that heat was rushing violently into his face — half from flustered, helpless embarrassment, and half from a furious anger that immediately found its target.

His eyes snapped toward the blond man lounging several feet away.

’I knew this bastard would choose something perverted.’

’What the fuck is wrong with him?’

’Dressing her like she’s about to walk onto the stage of a fucking strip club?’

Aren looked no less distressed than Jordan did.

Her entire face had turned red with mortification, and her hands were clamped protectively over her chest.

Ariana’s body was considerably fuller than Aren’s former one — particularly around the bust — and the outfit made that difference painfully obvious.

Before stepping out, Aren had already spent several frantic minutes tugging the leather higher, making sure the exposed edge of one areola remained covered so she could at least enter the room without suffering a complete wardrobe malfunction.

"Um... excuse me," she began, her voice painfully small. "Isn’t there anything more... decent available?"

Her eyes moved helplessly around the room.

"H-How am I supposed to wear this in front of so many people?"

The desperation in her voice finally snapped Jordan out of his stunned paralysis.

Immediately, he lowered Biscuit onto the couch and surged to his feet.

With only one fully functional arm, he snatched up the long coat Aren had worn to the opera house and hurried toward her.

He draped it around her shoulders with such urgency that she barely had time to react, before he began fastening the buttons.

One.

Two.

Three.

His fingers worked as quickly as his free arm allowed, and only when the coat was securely closed did some of the panic finally leave his chest.

By the time he was satisfied that she was reasonably covered, he whipped around toward the source of the entire disaster.

"Just what the hell were you thinking, you fucking perv?" he demanded. "You think because you’re paying her, you get to dress her in whatever trashy shit you want?"

Nearby, Jeremiah accepted the insult with a perfectly pleased smile.

He had been openly admiring the sight from the moment Aren stepped out of the dressing room, while Marco, standing beside him, had apparently forgotten how to behave like a respectable gentleman.

Marco’s mouth had remained slightly open, and despite several visible attempts to correct himself, his gaze kept drifting straight back toward Aren’s chest.

"What are you talking about, my friend?" Jeremiah asked, resting his chin elegantly against one hand. "I’ve merely selected Ariana’s wardrobe according to my meticulous study of her particular fashion preferences."

The curve of his mouth deepened, as though recalling that research amused him.

"Seriously, have you seen what she used to wear to her own parties? I’m surprised you’re reacting so dramatically to something this tame."

Jordan released a harsh breath through his nose.

He knew exactly which outfits Jeremiah meant. He had accidentally seen enough photographs of them scattered across the internet.

That knowledge, however, did absolutely nothing to reduce his anger.

"What do those outfits have to do with what she’s wearing today?" Jordan shot back. "She hasn’t dressed like that once since I’ve known her, so apparently her tastes have changed quite a lot."

"Oh? Really?" Jeremiah’s expression turned dreamily curious. "And who exactly are you to have such strong opinions about what she wears at my event? Are the two of you dating? Or have you already gotten married without informing me?"

"We’re dating!" Jordan snapped.

The words came out so loudly and immediately that everyone in the room went still.

Jordan himself seemed to realize the sheer volume of his voice a fraction too late. His face heated, but he stubbornly pressed on, lowering his voice to something more controlled.

"But it’s not because I’m dating her that I get to dictate what she can and can’t wear, if that’s what you’re trying to shove into my mouth. This is a formal event, yours or not. Are you seriously planning to turn her into a joke for your cheap little stage drama?"

He gestured sharply toward Aren.

"She obviously looks uncomfortable in those clothes. So go find her something more decent."

Jeremiah merely shook his head with exaggerated regret.

Then, with a graceful sigh, he pushed himself up from the couch and approached them at an unhurried pace.

"Oh, my. I’d love nothing more than to find our Ariana whatever clothing her heart desires. But what can I possibly do? This outfit fits the stage name I’ve prepared for you perfectly, Ariana."

His voice lowered mysteriously as he came to a stop before them.

"Would you like to know what it is?"

Aren tilted her head curiously.

"What is it?"

Every instinct in her body told her that she probably did not want to hear what came next.

"How about I give you a little demonstration instead?" Jeremiah suggested brightly. "That will surely bring my entire artistic vision to life."

Before anyone could stop him, Jeremiah ceremoniously raised a closed fist to his mouth as though holding an invisible microphone.

He cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and spun into motion with the flourish of a professional showman already standing beneath a spotlight.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced loudly. "Please welcome to the stage — Ariana ’The Sex Bomb’ Lombardi!"

The holding room fell into silence.

A very complete silence.

Marco and the assistant, both of whom had been fully aware of Jeremiah’s proposed stage name, shifted awkwardly where they stood. Neither appeared remotely willing to make eye contact with anyone.

Biscuit stared at Jeremiah with profound confusion, clearly unable to understand why the beautiful blond man had suddenly begun waving his arms around and shouting like a clown.

Jordan looked considerably less confused.

He looked furious.

The muscles in his jaw had locked so tightly that he seemed seconds away from crossing the room, wrapping his hands around Jeremiah’s throat, and finally putting an end to the world’s most irritating drama queen.

Only one thing prevented him from doing it.

Aren was there.

And Jordan was already painfully aware that his reputation in her eyes had suffered enough from his past violent tendencies.

Aren, however, looked like the most shocked person in the room. She stared at Jeremiah and his ridiculous flourish with a completely blank expression.

"That’s the most ridiculous stage name I’ve ever heard."

There was not the slightest hint of apology in her voice. No attempt to soften the criticism.

Then her brows drew together, and the seriousness in her expression gradually replaced her earlier embarrassment.

"Excuse me, Mister Jeremiah," she continued, her voice firm. "But I refuse to be called by that name, and I refuse to wear this undignified outfit as well."