Chapter 50.2
it.
He did it while Brett was still asleep on his chest in Singapore, the black bridal panties still on, the red and blue superhero suit still on the floor, his phone in one hand and Brett's soft, warm weight anchoring him to the bed with the other.
Navy pleated skirt, size 2, hemmed to barely brush the top of the thigh. Crisp white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, meant to be tied just under the bust. Navy and white striped tie. White thigh-high socks with lace tops. And the shoes — black patent Mary Jane heels, three inches, with the little strap across the instep that Lance had specifically searched for.
"For my girl," he'd typed in the gift note, his thumb hovering over Brett's hip bone as he hit express shipping.
It arrived the next afternoon in the same discreet black box as the superhero suit.
Brett took the box into the bathroom alone, his heart hammering, his hands shaking with a different kind of nerves than the wedding dress or the lingerie. This wasn't about being a bride. This was about being Lance's fantasy — the one he'd confessed in the dark.
He stepped out of his silk robe and started with the socks, rolling the white thigh-highs up his long, smooth legs, the lace tops sitting perfectly mid-thigh. Then the navy pleated skirt, the zipper at the side catching for a second on his narrow hips before settling low on his 23-inch waist. The white blouse next — he left the top three buttons undone and tied the tails in a knot just under his D cup breasts, pushing them up high and perfect.
The tie was last, loose around his neck.
He sat on the edge of the marble tub to put on the Mary Janes — black patent, shiny as glass, the strap buckling neatly across his instep, the three-inch heel making his calves flex, making his legs look endless.
He pulled his honey blonde hair into two high pigtails, tied with navy ribbons that matched the skirt.
He looked in the mirror.
He didn't see Brett from Montana. He didn't see Brielle the bride-to-be.
He saw Lance's schoolgirl. Innocent on the surface, and absolutely not innocent underneath — the white blouse sheer enough to show the lace of the white bridal bra he'd put on first, the skirt short enough that when he turned, you could see the edge of the white lace panties, the Mary Janes clicking on the marble like a promise.
He opened the bathroom door.
Lance was waiting on the bed in a white t-shirt and dark jeans, his phone forgotten, his blue eyes lifting —
And stopping dead.
His mouth actually fell open.
"Brielle," Lance breathed, his voice gone hoarse in an instant.
Brett stepped out slowly, his hips swaying just enough to make the pleated skirt flare, his pigtails bouncing, his hands clasped innocently in front of him, the Mary Janes clicking with every careful step.
"Mr. Sullivan?" Brett said in his softest, most perfected alto, his blue eyes wide and demure under his lashes. "You wanted to see me after class?"
Lance made a sound low in his throat — half groan, half laugh, all wrecked — and was off the bed in one movement, crossing to Brett, his hands hovering at Brett's waist like he didn't know where to touch first.
"Jesus Christ," Lance whispered, his hands finally settling on the tiny knot of the blouse, his thumbs brushing the swell of Brett's breasts through the white cotton. "You look..."
"Innocent?" Brett supplied helpfully, tilting his head, his pigtails swinging.
Lance's eyes darkened. "Not even a little bit."
Brett laughed — that bright, delighted laugh that had first hooked Lance in Montana — and stepped closer, his Mary Janes bringing him almost eye-level with Lance, his hands sliding up Lance's chest.
"Good," Brett purred, dropping the innocent act for just a second, his voice low and wicked. "Because I'm not here to be innocent, Lance. I'm here to be yours."
Lance kissed him then — hard, deep, possessive, his hands fisting in the pleated skirt, hiking it up just enough to feel the lace tops of the thigh-highs, the bare skin of Brett's thighs.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Lance pressed his forehead to Brett's, his voice shaking with emotion, not just desire.
"You know what the best part is?" Lance murmured.
"What?" Brett whispered, his hands in Lance's hair, his Mary Janes digging into the carpet for balance.
"That tomorrow," Lance said, his blue eyes burning into Brett's, "you'll be in a wedding dress. And the day after that, you'll be in lingerie. And the day after that... who knows. But you'll always be my girl. In every costume. In every fantasy."
Brett's eyes filled with tears — happy, overwhelmed, perfect tears — and he nodded, his pigtails bouncing.
"My pleasure," Brett whispered again, the same words he'd said the night before, but now they were a vow. "Always my pleasure, Lance."
Lance picked him up — Mary Janes and pleated skirt and all — and carried him to the bed, laying him down gently among the white pillows, the navy skirt fanned out around his hips like a flower.
He didn't rush. He took his time unbuckling each Mary Jane, kissing the instep of each foot, sliding each white sock down slowly, reverently, like unwrapping a gift.
And Brett, who had once been terrified of heels, of skirts, of being seen — let himself be worshipped in pigtails and a schoolgirl uniform, because it was Lance doing the worshipping.
It was always going to be Lance…