The Zara dressing room air was thick with cheap cologne and lust. Lucy’s fingers, tipped in chipped black polish, tugged at the hem of the long-sleeve rugby shirt she’d forced Mark into. “See? It hugs your shoulders just right,” she purred, her voice a low vibration against his neck.

Mark usually lived in worn tees and jeans. This preppy shit made his skin crawl. But watching Lucy’s eyes darken with possession as she molded him into her ideal arm candy? That sent a jolt straight to his dick. He was hard already, trapped behind the stiff new fabric.

“It’s itchy,” he grumbled, just to hear her coax him.

“You’ll get used to it,” she whispered. Then she stepped closer, her body slotting against his. She wasn’t extremely pretty, her face was kinda plain, but fuck, she had weapons. Those great tits, swaddled in a thin silk cami, were now a firm pressure against his chest. He could feel the stiff peaks of her nipples, like little stones, grinding into him through the layers. “Does that feel itchy?” she breathed, rolling her hips, making her soft mound press against his growing bulge.

A rough groan escaped him. His hands found her waist, fingers digging into the soft give of her flesh. This was the deal. His freedom, traded for the hot, slick promise of her control. She’d been flirting with him for months, all sly smiles and accidental touches, and he’d finally snapped and asked her out. Now here he was, her project.

That night, wearing