The Billings Heritage Gala was crystal and champagne and old Montana money, and Brielle walked into it on Richard Sullivan's arm like she was born for it.

She felt every layer of what she was wearing with each step across the marble lobby — and that was exactly how Richard liked her. Aware. Kept. On display.

Gone was the pinstripe mini from the limo. For the gala, Richard had chosen couture.

A black velvet column gown, strapless, boned so tight she could feel the stays pressing into her ribs with every breath, the sweetheart neckline pushing up what little softness the estrogen had given back to her chest. The velvet was liquid under the chandeliers, catching light like ink, clinging to her hips, to the smooth tuck she'd perfected in the limo bathroom, to the curve of her ass.

Under the gown — because Richard insisted on layers — she wore sheer black Wolford Individual 10 pantyhose, so fine they felt like nothing, like a second skin, the waistband sitting high and tight over her hips, holding everything flat and smooth. Under those, the tiniest blush pink silk thong, just a whisper of fabric, chosen to keep the line of the gown perfect.

On her feet, black satin Louboutin strappy stilettos, 120mm, the ankle straps biting delicately into her skin. Around her throat, the white leather RICHARD'S WIFEY choker — Richard had refused the diamonds the stylist offered. "My wife wears my name, not theirs," he'd said.

On her left hand, the five-carat emerald cut caught every flashbulb as they entered. On her right, Richard's hand, warm and possessive at the small of her back, guiding her.

"Daddy," Brielle whispered, leaning in, her lips brushing his jaw, her perfume — the soft pink one — blooming in the space between them. "Everyone's staring."

"Let them," Richard murmured, his thumb stroking once over the velvet at her waist, feeling the boning, feeling her underneath. "They're looking at what's mine."

Brielle shivered, the velvet shifting against her skin, the boning creaking faintly, the pantyhose whispering against her thighs as she walked. She was shameless, and she knew it, and she loved it.

She flirted all night. Not with the other guests — with him.

At the cocktail table, she fed him a chocolate-covered strawberry, her pink lips closing deliberately around the fruit, her tongue darting out to catch the juice, her eyes locked on his. "Mmm, Daddy, taste," she purred, loud enough for the couple next to them to hear.

In the receiving line, she pressed her hip into his, her hand sliding down his tuxedo sleeve, her long nails tracing his wrist. "You're so handsome tonight," she breathed, her voice high and girlish. "Makes me want to be bad."

Richard's eyes darkened, but his smile never wavered for the cameras.

By the time they reached their table, Brielle was buzzing, drunk on champagne and attention and the sheer power of being Richard Sullivan's wifey.

She crossed her legs under the table, the black velvet riding up just enough to show a flash of sheer pantyhose at her ankle, the satin strap of her shoe. She leaned in close, her breasts pressing against his arm through the boning of her gown, her mouth at his ear.

"Do you know what you do to me?" she whispered, shameless, her breath hot. "Walking in here with you, everyone watching... I'm so wet for you, Daddy. Well — you know." She giggled, filthy and sweet. "As wet as I can get."

Richard's hand dropped under the tablecloth, finding her knee, sliding up the impossible smoothness of her pantyhose-clad thigh, his fingers pressing into the velvet and the nylon and the heat beneath.

Brielle gasped, her whole body clenching. The boning of the gown dug into her ribs as she sucked in a breath. The tight waistband of the pantyhose held her tuck flat, held everything in place — but God, she was hard.

She'd been half-hard since the limo, since he'd almost untucked her and she'd begged him not to. Now, with his hand on her thigh, with the room watching, with the champagne and the flirting, she could feel herself fighting against the tuck.

Her penis — tucked back and taped flat under the silk thong and the sheer pantyhose and the tight velvet gown — was swelling, straining, pulsing with every heartbeat, pushing hard against the layers holding it down.

The silk thong cut into her. The waistband of the pantyhose bit into her hips. The boning of the gown squeezed her middle, leaving nowhere for it to go.

Panic flared, bright and thrilling.

"Richard," she whispered, her flirting gone, her voice suddenly small and scared and turned on all at once. Her hand flew under the table, grabbing his wrist through her skirt. "Daddy — stop — I'm —"

He felt it instantly through the velvet and nylon — the hard ridge fighting against the flatness he'd created, the unmistakable shape of her arousal threatening to print right through the couture gown.

Brielle's eyes were huge, her lipstick-perfect mouth open in a silent 'oh'. She could feel the velvet stretching, feel the pantyhose straining, feel the tuck starting to give.

"I'm going to show," she mouthed, mortified and exhilarated, her thighs pressing together under the table, the nylon hissing. "It's fighting, it's going to pop out, everyone will see—"

Richard didn't pull his hand away. He pressed harder, his palm flattening her through the gown, holding her down, his eyes locked on hers, calm and absolute.

"Breathe," he commanded softly, for her ears only, while smiling at the mayor's wife across the table. "Breathe for me, wifey."

Brielle obeyed, because she always obeyed, sucking in a shaky breath that made the boning creak, letting it out slow. The pressure eased, just barely. The tuck held.

"Good girl," Richard praised, his thumb stroking once, possessively, over the front of her gown where no one could see, feeling her throb against his hand through velvet and pantyhose and silk. "You stay tucked for Daddy. You don't get to show until I say."

Brielle whimpered, low in her throat, her whole body trembling under the black velvet, her pantyhose damp with sweat at the waistband, her Louboutins digging into the carpet for balance.

She leaned into his shoulder, playing the perfect arm candy for the cameras, while under the table she was his desperate, hard, tucked wifey fighting not to ruin her gown.

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, dizzy with love and arousal and fear. "I'll be good. I'll stay tucked for you."

Richard lifted his champagne flute with his free hand, toasting the room, his other hand still holding her flat and secret under the tablecloth.

And Brielle Sullivan — in black velvet and sheer hose and a choker that said WIFEY — sat beside the most powerful man in Montana, shamelessly in love, shamelessly turned on, and shamelessly his.…