The den doors closed with a soft, expensive click at 9:47 p.m.

Richard had one hand at the small of Brielle's back, warm and possessive right through the merlot Tom Ford velvet, his thumb stroking slow circles over the spot where the champagne La Perla bra strap hid underneath, his five-carat diamond flashing on Brielle's left hand every time Brielle shifted in his black patent So Kate 120mm Louboutins.

Lance had the matching hand on Elise, fingers splayed low over black satin, his navy suit jacket unbuttoned, his other hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler he hadn't touched, his eyes never leaving Brielle's white leather RICHARD'S WIFEY choker.

Two men. Two girls in sheer stockings. One very quiet room full of leather chairs and a fire that crackled too loud.

"Alright," Richard said finally, his voice that low billionaire rumble that made Brielle's knees go weak inside his sheer black Wolford Individual 10s, "that's enough family time for one night."

Lance raised an eyebrow. "Running away, Dad?"

"Getting stronger drinks," Richard corrected, dry as ice. "The bar here doesn't have the good stuff anymore. Not since someone drank me out of Macallan 25 last Christmas."

He looked pointedly at Brielle. Brielle flushed scarlet above the choker, the champagne lace bra suddenly two sizes too tight under the merlot velvet, the delicate underwire kissing his ribs with every shallow breath.

"We're heading into Whitefish," Lance said, sliding his arm around Elise's black satin waist, pulling her close, his fingers toying with the gold collar at her throat, his thumb brushing the three-carat diamond that used to belong to Brielle. "The pub on Central. They pour heavy."

Elise pouted, berry lips glossy in the firelight, her seamed stockinged leg already crossed, her black stiletto dangling. "You're leaving me? With her?"

"Her has a name, project girl," Brielle said sweetly, his wine-red mouth curving, his hand fluttering up to touch the white leather at his throat, fingers tracing those pink embroidered letters — RICHARD'S WIFEY — like a weapon. "It's Mommy, remember?"

Elise's smoky eyes narrowed. Delighted. Dangerous.

Richard looked between the two of them — his velvet-wrapped wife perched on the arm of a leather chair, stockinged ankles crossed, red soles flashing, and his son's satin-wrapped fiancée sprawled on the settee opposite, seamed nylons gleaming in the firelight, three-carat ring winking — and sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who owned half of Montana and still couldn't control his living room.

"Play nice, you two," Richard said, pressing a hard kiss to Brielle's temple, right above the choker buckle, his hand sliding down Brielle's velvet back to squeeze his hip once, possessive, grounding. "Behave for Daddy while I'm gone, wifey."

"Always, Daddy," Brielle breathed, shivering as the merlot velvet shifted over champagne lace, as the Wolfords whispered against each other under the long skirt.

Lance leaned down to kiss Elise goodbye, slow and filthy and deliberate, right in front of his father and his ex-wife, his hand fisting in her jet black hair, her berry lipstick smearing across his mouth. When he pulled back, Elise was breathing fast, her gold collar rising and falling, her black satin bodice shivering.

"Be good, baby," Lance murmured against her ear, loud enough for Brielle to hear every word. "Try not to steal my mom. Again."

He winked at Brielle over Elise's head. "Play nice, Mother."

Then the front door thudded. An engine turned over in the cold Bozeman night. Headlights swept across the den windows. Tires crunched on gravel heading toward Whitefish.

Silence.

Just the fire popping. Just two trans girls alone in a den that smelled like expensive scotch and expensive perfume and bad decisions.

Elise was the first to move. She uncrossed her long seamed-stockinged legs, slow, letting the black satin ride up another devastating inch, letting Brielle see the full flash of lace stocking top and silver garter clip, then recrossed them the other way, her stiletto brushing Brielle's patent Louboutin under the coffee table as she did.

"Well, wifey," she purred, stretching like a cat in black satin, her gold collar catching the firelight, the three-carat diamond throwing sparks across the leather furniture. "Looks like the cats are away."

"The mice were already playing," Brielle said, his voice steadier than his hands, which were fisted in his merlot velvet skirt under the table, crushing the Tom Ford, feeling the champagne lace panties shift under the power mesh, feeling the sheer Wolfords cling damply to the backs of his knees. "You started it at dinner, project girl. All that footsie under the table. So desperate for Mommy's attention?"

Elise laughed, low and delighted, and stood in one fluid motion, black satin whispering down over seamed hips, stiletto heels sinking into the thick rug. She crossed the three feet between the settee and Brielle's chair with a slow, predatory sway that made the backseams on her stockings ripple.

"Desperate?" she repeated, stopping right in front of Brielle's knees, close enough that her satin-clad thighs brushed his velvet-covered ones, close enough that Brielle could see the faint sheen of sweat at her gold collar, close enough that her perfume — dark and smoky and expensive — filled his lungs. "Baby, I'm engaged. To your ex-husband. Wearing your ex-engagement ring. I'm winning."

She held up her left hand, wiggled those long black nails, made the three-carat catch the firelight and throw it straight into Brielle's eyes.

Brielle's breath caught high in his throat, audible in the quiet den, making the white choker jump against his pulse.

"Winning?" Brielle echoed, and then, before his brain could catch up to his mouth, before the champagne and the humiliation and the three hours of being called Mother could stop him, he reached out and grabbed Elise's wrist — the one with his old ring on it — and yanked.

Elise stumbled forward with a startled gasp, her stiletto turning on the rug, her hands flying out to catch herself — landing square on Brielle's merlot velvet thighs, fingers splaying wide over Tom Ford and sheer Wolford underneath, nails digging in through four hundred dollars a yard of fabric.

They froze like that, Elise bent over Brielle's lap, black hair falling forward in a curtain of ink around both their faces, berry mouth open and panting two inches from Brielle's wine-red one, her seamed-stockinged knees bumping Brielle's sheer Wolford-clad knees, her satin dress riding up dangerously high in the back.

"Well," Elise breathed, her smoky eyes dropping to Brielle's mouth, to the smudged lipstick at the corner, to the white leather choker pulsing against his throat with his hammering heart, to the faint outline of champagne lace just visible through the merlot velvet when the firelight hit right. "Hello, Mother."

"Shut up," Brielle hissed, mortified, furious, his face burning scarlet, his whole body thrumming under velvet and lace and nylon, his hands — traitors — sliding up from Elise's wrist to grip her bare upper arms, feeling the goosebumps rise under his palms, feeling her shiver. "Take off my ring."

"Make me," Elise whispered back, grin sharp and feral and utterly delighted, and then — slow, deliberate, watching Brielle's eyes the entire time — she sank down.

Right onto Brielle's lap.

Black satin landing on merlot velvet with a soft, obscene shush, seamed stockings sliding against sheer Wolfords with a whisper that sounded deafening in the quiet den, Elise's weight settling warm and solid across Brielle's thighs, her stiletto-clad feet bracketing his Louboutins on the rug, her hands coming up to brace on the leather wings of his chair, caging him in.

Brielle made a strangled sound deep in his throat, his hands flying to her waist to push her off — then clutching, hard, fingers digging into black satin and warm skin underneath, holding her there instead.

"You are insane," Brielle gasped, breathless, his choker suddenly three sizes too tight, the champagne bra suddenly crushing, the Wolfords suddenly hypersensitive everywhere Elise's seamed nylons touched his. "Lance will kill us. Richard will kill us. Your fiancé is my ex-husband, you—"

"—are currently sitting in your lap in my dead mother-in-law's den wearing your ex-engagement ring while you grope my thigh through my stockings, yes, I'm aware," Elise finished cheerfully, then leaned in, close enough that her berry lips brushed the shell of Brielle's ear, close enough that her breath was hot against the white leather choker. "Relax, wifey. The cats are all the way in Whitefish. Meow."

Her hand slid down, slow and teasing, over Brielle's merlot velvet sleeve, over his wrist, over the back of his hand where the five-carat diamond weighed heavy — then kept going, under the hem of his long dress, finding bare, stockinged knee through sheer black Wolford, nails scratching lightly, making Brielle jerk hard enough to rattle the chair.

"Elise—" Brielle choked out, scandalized, turned on, furious, humiliated, his free hand fisting in black satin at her hip, dragging her closer instead of pushing her away, stockings hissing frantically against stockings, velvet crushing against satin.

"Mmm?" Elise hummed against his choker, her lips brushing the pink embroidered letters — RICHARD'S WIFEY — making Brielle shudder head to toe, making the Louboutins dig into the rug. "Something wrong, Mother? You look flushed."

Brielle stared up at her — at the smudged berry lipstick, at the gold collar flashing at her throat, at the three-carat diamond winking on her left hand where it rested, possessive, on his velvet-clad thigh — at this gorgeous, vicious, black-haired nightmare in seamed stockings currently straddling his lap in his husband's father's den while their men drank whiskey thirty minutes away in Whitefish —

— and felt a helpless, furious, delighted laugh bubble up his throat, half sob, half giggle, utterly ruined.

"You are the worst," Brielle whispered, cheeks burning scarlet above the choker, breath coming in short, shallow pulls that made the champagne lace rise and fall visibly under the Tom Ford, his stockinged knees pressed desperately together under Elise's weight, his hands full of black satin and warm nylon-clad thigh and absolutely refusing to let go.

"I learned from the best, Mommy," Elise purred, grinning like a cat with cream, her seamed calf sliding slow and teasing up against Brielle's sheer Wolfords one more time, her nails digging in just enough to feel through velvet and nylon. "Now be a good wifey and tell me again how I'm just a project."

Brielle whimpered into her berry-stained mouth and didn't push her off.…