THE CRAZY PROPOSITION

The invitation arrived on heavy cream cardstock, hand-delivered to the penthouse by a driver in a black suit, three days after the cabana.

SULLIVAN FOUNDATION MASQUERADE

Black Tie & Fantasy

Attire: Costume Required

Lance tossed it onto the kitchen island like it was a parking ticket. "We don't have to go."

Brett picked it up, his long pink nails — he'd switched back to soft ballet pink after the beach — tracing the gold embossing, his big blue eyes already lighting up.

It was the first party since the gala. Since the dance. Since Richard had walked in on them half-naked in the cabana and looked at Brett like he was something to be bought.

Brett wanted to go.

No. Brett needed to go.

"Oh, we're going," Brett said softly, his soft alto taking on that dangerous purr Lance had learned to both love and fear. He looked up at Lance over the invitation, his honey blonde hair falling over one shoulder, his D cup breasts pushing against the thin white tank he'd stolen from Lance's drawer. "And I know exactly what I'm wearing."

Lance raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Brett smiled.

Nico arrived the next afternoon with three rolling racks and the look of a general preparing for war.

"French maid," Brett announced, perched on the edge of the marble vanity in just his tucking thong and a robe, his legs crossed, his six-inch So Kates dangling off his toes out of habit. "But make it... not cute. Make it sinful."

Nico's eyes lit up. "Say less."

What Nico pulled out wasn't a costume from a Halloween store. It was couture.

The dress was black satin, so short Brett was terrified to bend over, with a sweetheart neckline that was less neckline and more suggestion, boned and corseted so tight Brett gasped when Nico laced him into it. It cinched his already tiny twenty-three inch waist down to something obscene, something Lance could span with both hands, and pushed his D cup breasts up and together until they spilled over the top in a perfect, creamy swell.

The skirt was layered — black satin underneath, sheer black organza over it, trimmed with the frilliest, most ridiculous white lace ruffle Brett had ever seen, barely covering the tops of his thighs. The back was a scandal — completely open except for the criss-cross black satin laces of the corset, showing every inch of Brett's smooth, pale back.

"It's got built-in support," Nico murmured, tightening the laces, his knuckles brushing Brett's spine. "And a hidden tuck panel. You're welcome."

But the dress was only the beginning.

"What else?" Brett whispered, staring at himself in the mirror, his blue eyes wide, his lips parted. He looked like a fantasy. He looked like a sin.

Nico grinned and held up the next piece.

Dark nylons. Not tights. Not pantyhose. Real, sheer black stockings, so dark they were almost opaque, with a thick black lace top that sat high on Brett's thigh. They attached to a black satin garter belt with six straps and tiny silver clips that dug just enough to remind Brett they were there with every step.

Brett's breath caught when Nico rolled them up his long legs, his hands careful and clinical, the nylon whispering over Brett's freshly shaved skin.

Then the shoes.

"Oh my god," Brett breathed.

They weren't heels. They were weapons.

Black patent leather, ankle-breaker stilettos with a platform so high Brett had to sit down to put them on, the heel itself a solid seven inches of needle-thin steel, the ankle strap criss-crossing up his leg like bondage, lacing all the way to mid-calf. They made his 129-pound frame tower, made his calves look like sculpted marble, made his ass lift and his back arch automatically.

"Skyscrapers," Nico confirmed, buckling the last strap. "You walk in these, you own the room."

"What else?" Brett asked again, his voice shaking now, his heart hammering. He was already half-dressed and he could barely breathe.

Nico reached into the last garment bag and pulled out the accessories.

A tiny white lace apron, so short it was purely decorative, tying in a big bow at the small of Brett's back, the ruffles bouncing against his ass when he moved.

A black velvet choker with a single white pearl drop that sat right in the hollow of Brett's throat, right above the swell of his breasts.

White lace wrist cuffs, frilly and innocent.

A black satin headband with a perky white lace maid's cap perched on top of Brett's honey blonde hair, which Nico had curled into big, bouncy Hollywood waves.

And finally — because Nico was Nico — a feather duster. White, fluffy, with a black satin handle.

"For authenticity," Nico said solemnly.

Brett stared at his reflection and didn't recognize himself.

He wasn't the scared boy from Montana in a hoodie. He wasn't the dove-grey girl trying to impress Eleanor. He wasn't even the midnight-blue siren from the gala.

He was a French maid fantasy come to life — corseted, laced, barely covered, his legs endless in dark nylons and seven-inch heels, his waist impossibly small, his breasts pushed up like an offering, his blue eyes huge and lined in black, his lips painted a deep, wet cherry red to match the costume.

He looked fuckable. He looked powerful. He looked expensive.

The bedroom door opened.

Lance walked in, already in his costume — a perfect black tuxedo, but with a white Phantom of the Opera half-mask, his dark hair slicked back — and stopped dead.

His mouth actually fell open.

"Brielle," he choked out, his blue eyes raking from the lace cap, down the corseted bodice, over the swell of Brett's breasts, down the impossibly short frilly skirt, down the dark nylons clinging to Brett's long legs, to those obscene, ankle-breaking heels. "Holy fuck."

Brett turned slowly, letting the skirt flare, letting Lance see the laces up his back, the bow of the apron right above his ass, the way the heels made his legs look a mile long, and picked up the feather duster.

"Yes, Master?" Brett purred in his softest, most innocent alto, dropping into a perfect little curtsy that made the corset push his breasts up even higher, made the skirt ride up to show the lace tops of his stockings. "Did you need something... dusted?"

Lance made a sound low in his throat, something animal and wrecked, and crossed the room in two strides, his hands landing hard on Brett's corseted waist, pulling him flush against his tuxedo.

"You're trying to kill me," Lance growled against Brett's ear, his hands sliding down to grip Brett's ass through the tiny skirt, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where the stockings ended. "After the cabana, after my father, you're going to walk into a party full of Singapore's elite dressed like this?"

Brett leaned into him, his cherry-red lips curved in a dangerous smile, his hands sliding up Lance's chest to straighten his bow tie — a habit now.

"Next level flirting, remember?" Brett whispered, his blue eyes dark and daring. "You said costume party. I dressed for it."

Lance's hands tightened on his waist, his mask slipping slightly as he bent to kiss Brett's neck, right above the velvet choker, his breath hot.

"If anyone touches you," Lance murmured, his voice pure possession, "if anyone even looks at you too long in this—"

"They'll look," Brett interrupted softly, his confidence blooming bright and fierce in his chest, his fear from the cabana finally, fully burned away. He wasn't hiding anymore. Not from Richard, not from Eleanor, not from anyone. "Let them look, handsome. I'm yours."

He tapped Lance lightly on the chest with the feather duster and turned on those seven-inch heels — wobbling only slightly — and sashayed toward the door, his hips swaying, his frilly skirt bouncing, the laces of his corset flashing with every step.

Lance stared after him for a full five seconds, his hands fisted at his sides, his chest heaving.

Then he followed.

Because what else could he do?

The maid had spoken….