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"Looks like it’s held together by dental floss." He stalked toward my closet with the determination of a man on a mission. "You're not wearing that to a boat full of drunk bikers."

"It's a party! I'm supposed to look hot." I held the rejected dress against myself, checking the mirror.

"You look hot in baggy sweatpants," he grumbled, pulling out a much more conservative—but still hot—silver dress. "This one."

"But this one makes my boobs look amazing!" I protested, gesturing at the deep V neckline of the black dress.

His eyes darkened, following the path of my hands. "That's the problem."

Before I could respond, he moved. One second I was standing by my bed, the next he had me caged against the dresser, his body blocking any escape route. The silver dress hung from his hand like a flag of surrender I had no intention of waving.

"Those," he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my knees weak, "are for my eyes only, wildflower. Don't make me remind you who you belong to."

My breath caught. This close, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His free hand came up to trace the edge of my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

"You're not the boss of my party clothes," I managed to sass, though my voice came out breathier than intended.

His smile was all dom. "Want to rethink that statement?"

Then he spun me around, and I squeaked in surprise. My hands landed flat on the dresser, his body pressed against my back. He leaned down, lips brushing my ear.

"You're going to wear the silver dress," he said calmly, like he wasn't currently scrambling my brain cells with proximity. "You're going to stay with the bridal party. And you're going to be a good girl tonight. Understood?"

I should have agreed. Should have nodded and put on the silver dress like a reasonable person. Instead, I pressed back against him, feeling his sharp intake of breath.

"What if I don't want to be good?" I whispered.

His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to make me gasp. "Then we're going to have a very differentconversation when we get home. One that involves you over my knee and understanding exactly who makes the rules."

Heat flooded through me. "Promises, promises."

"Brat," he growled, but released me, stepping back. The loss of contact was almost painful. "Silver dress. Now."

Twenty minutes later, I'd managed a compromise. The silver dress hugged my curves perfectly, the deep back showing my tattoos, the hem hitting mid-thigh in a way that was sexy but not scandalous. But I'd won the shoe battle—strappy black heels that wrapped around my ankles and made my legs look miles long.

"Those shoes are ridiculous," Tyson muttered, watching me buckle the last strap.

"These shoes are gorgeous," I corrected, standing and doing a little spin. The dress flared slightly, and his eyes tracked the movement like a laser. "Besides, they make my legs look incredible."

"Your legs always look incredible." The compliment slipped out like he couldn't help it, and I preened.

"Sweet talker." I grabbed my clutch, checking that my phone was charged. The tracker necklace sat perfectly at my throat, innocuous but reassuring. "Ready to pretend we don't know each other?"

His jaw tightened. "Be good," he warned at my door, hands shoved in his pockets like he was physically restraining himself from touching me.

"I'm always good," I lied, already planning exactly how to torment him tonight. A brush here, a bend there, just enough to watch him struggle with control.

"Lena." His voice carried warning and something else—genuine concern. "I'm serious. Duke's already suspicious. It might seem funny to you, but these are club rules—they’re serious. We can't afford to—"

"Then you better keep your distance, Daddy." I stretched up on my toes to kiss him, quick but thorough. His hands came up automatically to steady me, gripping my waist.

"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered against my lips.

"Wouldn't want to blow our cover," I said innocently, then slipped out the door before he could respond.

His groan followed me down the hallway, and I grinned. The Uber was already waiting, and I slid into the backseat, careful not to flash the driver. The silver dress rode up slightly, and I tugged it down, remembering Tyson's possessive expression.

My phone buzzed. A text from him: *Behave yourself, little girl.*