Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Releasing me, he starts browsing dresses, pulling various styles and colors out. “The store closes in twenty minutes, giving us just enough time to find you a new dress for our dinner.”
I snort. Maybe, but that dress won’t be bought here. “I’m more of a High Street kind of girl.”
He holds up a lovely black short number, which probably has an insane price tag attached. “I’m buying.”
“What?”
Collecting me, he directs my dazed form to the nearest changing room, practically placing me inside one of the cubicles. He hands me the hanger. “I’m buying, therefore I get to choose. And I like this one. Put it on.” He whips the curtain across, and I stare at the dress for a good few moments, pondering what to do. I can’t let him buy me a dress. I’ve known him a matter of minutes. “I can’t accept this,” I say to the curtain, and it’s quickly whipped across again.
He smiles at me. “Yes, you can. Now try the dress on.” He disappears behind the curtain again, and I shrug to myself, starting to strip down. When I’m standing in my underwear, it occurs to me that I’m virtually naked, and there is only a pathetic piece of material between us. Is he thinking the same? I look down my body. It’s not bad. I have great boobs, good upper arms. I’ve slacked at the gym in recent weeks, not surprising given my demanding new boss. Or rather, his exacting wife. I bet Mr. Sexy as Fuck works out every day. I bet under that suit is the body of an Adonis. I bet there’s not one scrap of fat on him. I bet . . .
No bets.
I get into the dress and bend my arms up my back to try and fasten the zip. “Does it fit?” he asks through the curtain.
“I don’t know. I can’t reach the zip.” I wriggle and wrestle in front of the mirror, and then yelp when he yanks the curtain across, my arms shifting to my front to hold the dress to me. “Whoa, mister.”
His gaze lingers on my chest for a few moments, his eyes flashing heat, before he physically shakes himself back to the here and now, coughing his throat clear. “Let me help.”
I laugh, nervous as shit. “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Turn. Around.”
I’m facing the mirror fast, my caution tossed to the wind, his stern tone turning me on. Turning me on so bloody much. And then his hands are on the dress, and I’m stiff as a board waiting for the inevitable dash of contact. And when it happens, my eyes fly to his in the reflection, and his hands still. There’s heat in his eyes again. No one’s bantering and laughing now. Fucking hell. Desire swirls through me too fast to stop, and I part my lips to get air into my lungs. I can read his intentions in his gaze, and I know he’s reading the acceptance in mine. God, am I really going to do this? In a changing room? In Harrods? With a man I don’t know? Does he do this often? Hunt women in department stores and have his wicked way with them?
Oh, the questions.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, his hands paused on the back of the dress.
“I think I’m about to have sex with a total stranger.” Let’s just start firing our arrows straight.
“I’m in the same boat,” he all but murmurs, still holding my dress. “Would it make you feel better to know my name?”
Would it? Or should I take this unexpected Christmas gift and just go with it? Live on the edge. Throw caution to the wind. You’re boring. Your life lacks excitement. You should be out there dating. Why the hell are my sister’s words swirling in my mind now? Live on the edge. “No, I don’t want to know your name,” I say, turning to face him. But he stops me with two firm hands on my shoulders.
I look at him, and he shakes his head. “Stay there.” He reaches for the hem of the dress and slowly drags it up my thighs to my waist, watching me closely the whole time. “Put your hands on the mirror.”
My palms slap the glass as he yanks his tie loose and starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch by perfect inch of his chest. A broad, manly chest, with neat dark hair dusting it. I swallow. It’s as I suspected. No fat. Nothing but ravines of muscles. “Condom,” I mutter mindlessly, locating a small piece of sensibility amid my chaotic thoughts.
He falters unfastening his fly, a look of devastation replacing the lust. “I don’t have one.”
I close my eyes and think real hard about what I’m going to say next. This is the perfect opportunity to call a halt on this. But when I have a solution to our problem, it would be silly not to offer it. It’s either that or walk out of this changing room feeling like a bomb ready to detonate, and I’ve already kissed goodbye to that option. “I have one,” I breathe, “in my purse.”