The text came from Mara at 3 pm, not from Lance.
Special visitor tonight. 7 pm sharp. Full glam. The best of everything. Be ready.
Brett was in the kitchen in his silk robe, barefoot, his long honey blonde hair in a messy bun, his face clean, sipping his green juice. His heart, already sensitive from the maximum hormones, did a slow, hard thud against his D cup breasts.
He read it three times.
Special visitor.
His big blue eyes flew to the calendar on the wall. Lance wasn't due home for another three weeks. Matteo was in Milan. Who else?
He didn't ask. He just ran upstairs.
By 4 pm the Cocoon was a hurricane of preparation. Julian arrived with three cases. Elena steamed dresses. Nico polished shoes.
Julian laid the outfit on the bed like armor.
First, the lingerie, the sexiest set money could buy, all in black. A balconette bra in French lace that lifted Brett's full breasts high and round, with satin straps that dug just enough to feel delicious. Matching high-waisted panties in sheer lace with a tiny satin bow at the back. And the garter belt, wide black satin with six gold clips, heavy and expensive.
Then the stockings, black seamless, sheer as air, with a reinforced toe made for heels.
Then the dress. Black, semi-sheer long sleeves, high neck that buttoned at the throat, back zipper that went from nape to the small of his back, fitted bodycon that clung to every curve he'd earned, mini length that barely covered the tops of his stockings.
And the shoes. Not his usual 120 mm. These were 140 mm platform Mary Janes, patent Louboutin black with the thick strap across the instep and the red sole flashing like a warning.
Brett stared at them and felt his breath catch. In those he would be six foot two.
"Today you are not a girl," Julian said, spritzing perfume, Brett's signature vanilla jasmine, into the air. "Today you are a weapon."
It took three hours. Mani pedi perfected in deep oxblood red. Hair straightened until it fell like liquid silk past his breasts, past his tiny twenty-three inch corseted waist. Makeup done in smoky perfection, charcoal and bronze smoked out around his big blue eyes, lashes so long they brushed his brow bone, cheekbones contoured to glass, his full lips overlined and painted a deep matte nude that made his perfect white veneers with their slightly sharpened canines look lethal.
He stepped into the lingerie, clipping each garter with shaking pink-nailed fingers, feeling the familiar intoxicating pull. He slid the stockings up his endlessly long, golden, hairless legs. He stepped into the dress and Julian zipped the back, the semi-sheer fabric hugging his breasts, his waist, his flared hips.
Then the shoes. He buckled the Mary Jane straps over his instep and stood.
He towered. His legs looked infinite. His body was pure hourglass, D cup breasts high, waist nipped in, hips curved, ass round under the tight black dress.
He looked in the mirror and didn't see Brett. He saw Brielle, fully realized, a goddess at one hundred and twenty-nine pounds.
"Oh my god," he whispered, his dangerous smile flashing.
At 6:55 pm he walked downstairs, each step slow and deliberate in the 140 mm platforms, the red soles clicking on marble. He could smell his own perfume. He could feel his garter straps pull with every sway of his hips.
Mara was waiting in the foyer. She looked him up and down and her eyes filled with tears. "Perfect."
"Who is it?" Brett asked, his soft girl voice trembling.
Mara just smiled and opened the front door.
The black SUV that wasn't Lance's usual car pulled up the drive. The back door opened. A tall figure in a dark overcoat stepped out into the Montana night, snow falling light around him.
Brett's heart stopped.
Lance.
He hadn't seen him in eleven weeks. Eleven weeks of pills and pain and corsets and ballet and kissing lessons and becoming.
Lance walked up the steps, his dark hair windblown, his jaw shadowed, his blue eyes tired from the flight from Singapore. He was expecting, Brett knew instantly from the look on his face, to see his best friend in a bad wig and a dress, a comical drag queen he could laugh with and pay off and send home.
He stopped dead three feet from the door when he saw her.
His eyes traveled slowly, disbelievingly, up Brett's endless legs in black seamless stockings and 140 mm platforms, up the tight black bodycon dress clinging to his tiny waist and full hips and D cup breasts, up his long throat to his high neck, up to his perfect smoky makeup, his big blue eyes, his full nude lips, his long straight honey blonde hair.
Lance's mouth actually fell open. His normally unshaken billionaire confidence, the confidence that ran boardrooms in Singapore, shattered to the core in one heartbeat.
He remembered, Brett could see it in his face, the million dollars he'd offered in a Whitefish apartment to a scared, broke, one hundred and seventy-five pound boy in a stained t-shirt.
This was not that boy.
This was the sexiest, most perfect woman he'd ever seen in his life, standing in his doorway in his house, wearing his lingerie, his shoes, his perfume.
"Brett?" Lance whispered, his voice hoarse and broken.
Brett smiled then, slow and dangerous and toothy, letting his slightly sharpened canines catch his lower lip, letting his perfect white veneers gleam in the porch light.
He took one step forward on his towering heels, hips swaying, and tilted his head, his long hair sliding over his shoulder.
"Hi, Lance," he purred in his low, smoky alto, the voice he'd trained for months, the voice that was now completely his own.
Lance stared at him, at her, his chest rising and falling fast under his overcoat, his eyes dark with shock and something else, something hot and stunned and unmistakably lust.
He didn't speak. He couldn't.
Brett just stood there, a one hundred and twenty-nine pound goddess in black, and let the man who made him look his fill.…