Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I don't say anything to her at first, as we gather up the things she needs to take home. A sewing machine, and a small box filled with lots of notions. She's got fabric, and the things that she's working on, and, of course, the dress itself.
"Do you typically wait this close to a deadline before you actually finish the task?"
“Ah, well, that’s hard to answer, isn’t it?” she says with a laugh. “There… haven’t really been many tasks before this?”
There's a vulnerability in her eyes I've seen before, only this time she doesn't seem to be able to mask it to me as she did before.
I look at the dress before her, neatly tidied up and zipped in an ivory travel bag.
“Sweetheart, that’s fuckin’ gorgeous. If you’ve had a lull, then it’s only because word hasn’t yet gotten out about how bloody talented you are.”
She flushes. “Thank you.”
“I’m dead serious,” I say, shaking my head. “Alright, I’ll admit it. I don't know a bloody thing about things like this. Dresses and fabric and all that crap. But I do know enough to realize that my sisters are bloody blown away by the bridesmaids’ dresses, and I've heard tell they said there was never a more beautiful dress than the one that you've designed for Fran.”
Her eyes shine at me. “Thanks for that, Mac. Honestly. Thank you.”
I give her a suggestive look. “No need to thank me, sweetheart. Just remember me later, will you?”
She sticks her tongue out at me playfully, and I wag a finger at her teasingly. "Watch it young lady."
I love how she flushes when I boss her around, the way her eyes grow wide and I can tell she wants more. Christ, I can’t wait to get her alone tonight.
Maybe I don’t have to do what I planned. Maybe there’s another way. I hate the idea of anyone so much as putting a frown on her face. I detest the thought of me being the one that does it.
She sighs when we try to pack everything up. “I don’t know, Mac, I just don’t know how I’ll be able to move everything I need.”
“I’ll help you.”
She shakes her head. “I reckon it just might make the most sense for me to stay here today to get this work done. Everything I need is here, and it's going to take so much time just to move everything…”
“I can make that work. For now. We’ll bring stuff home tonight, but I can work alongside you as you do for a bit.”
She grins. “I love that you’d do that for me.”
I will. I’ll do bloody anything for her.
So we pull everything out, and get to work right there in the shop. I prowl around the entryway door, making sure it's locked, and look for any sign of her old bodyguard returning. He's got the decency not to show, though.
I complete the emails, and all the work that I need to do with my jobs in Paris. We're traveling there next week, so I know I need to get things going. I finish my correspondence, set up a trade, and make sure that I have contacts ready to meet me when I land. My sisters want to go, but if things go off the way they should, there won't be time for them to come with us, and certainly no time for them to do anything.
I love working alongside Bryn. She hums prettily while doing her work, and every once in a while she'll reach out and rub my neck, run her hand down my back, or squeeze my hand. She likes the physical connection, I know. So do I.
Around lunchtime, she stands and stretches. I shut off my phone and beckon her over to me.
“C’mere,” I say, needing more than a little back rub.
“What?” she asks warily.
“Bryn…”
She bites her lip and walks closer. When she’s right in front of me, I take her by the hand, and tuck her onto my lap. I nuzzle my face in her hair, breathing her in. She smells so fucking good. Her arms come around my neck, and I silently hold her. I want to fuck her again. I want so much more.
“Do we have time for a lunch break?” I ask, thinking how close we are to the flat I rented.
“Not much,” she says wistfully. “I was thinking I’d grab a granola bar…”
I run my fingers along her legs, massaging her thigh, her calf, then back up again to her thighs.
“I can’t eat a fucking granola bar and call that a meal.”
She giggles. “Then don’t call it that.”
“You know what I mean.”
She nods. “We can order a proper lunch.”
“Let’s do that, then.”
Half an hour later, we’re back to work, only now we’re happily munching curry over white rice while we do it. I actually let her talk me into a vegetarian one, and it isn’t half bad. I pull out all the green vegetables, and she pricks them with her fork and eats them.