Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I lift my eyes to Ava. Disgust is emblazoned all over her face. Good. Then she knows how I’m feeling. But it’s soon my jaw sweeping the floor when she mouths, “Fuck off,” before dismissing me and turning to the assistant. She did not just do that.
“Have you anything shorter?” she asks.
Is she for fucking real? “Ava,” I growl, twitching like I’m being tasered. “Don’t push me.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the assistant says, sounding hesitant.
“Okay, I’ll take this one.” Ava hands the dress to the lady.
“Urh . . . is this the correct size for you?” she asks.
No, it’s fifty sizes too fucking small.
“It’s a ten?”
“It is, but I would recommend you try it on as we don’t offer refunds.”
That’s not a problem because she’s not buying the dress, but before I can advise the young woman, she’s shown Ava into the dressing room. My feet are itching to steam in there and rip that dress to shreds, and my hands are flexing, preparing to wring her fucking neck. I pace the store for a few minutes, searching for my lost control. It’s gone, mislaid, and I fear it may never be found.
The assistant appears from the fitting room, her lips straight as she slinks behind the cash desk, avoiding my accusing glare. Okay, I can pull this back. Play reasonable. Get her on side, and then think about how to deal with the dress once we’re friends again. I take a needed hit of air as I pass the cash desk, looking out the corner of my eye to the assistant, who’s fiddling with some tissue paper. “I want you to tell her it doesn’t suit her,” I say, and she swings a startled look my way. “And in return, I’ll buy all your stock.”
“Seriously?” she questions.
“Deadly.”
I leave her with that and enter the fitting room, and my eyes cross the second I clap eyes on Ava in front of the mirror, the cream silk clinging to every curve it touches, and it doesn’t touch much. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I murmur, my eyes glued to her long, willowy legs. My hands go to my hair. Tugs. She looks fucking incredible. A deity. My fucking savior and, dressed like this, my downfall. I take a few steps, fighting to reason with myself. She’s mine. She wants to be mine. This young, fresh beauty in a showstopper dress is in love with me. Me. Not so young. Not so fresh. Although, admittedly, I’m feeling younger and fresher these days. All her.
I look at her amused face. She’s mine, yes, and wants to be, but that won’t stop people trying to take her away from me. And in this dress, those chances are multiplied by a million.
“You’re not . . .” I murmur, waving a finger up and down her body, “you . . . you can’t . . .” It’s too short. Way too short. I’ll be up for murder. I need to make her understand, but as I look at her, defiance and willfulness etched across her beautiful face, I just know reasoning isn’t going to work. “Ava . . . baby . . .” I take another look down the dress, and my cock, the traitor, swells. “Oh, I can’t look at you.” I remove myself from the dressing room before I pass out. Or jump her. I’m hot. Suffocating.
I pass the sales assistant and glare at her, dropping my hand from the front of my jeans. “Remember?” I ask, as she disappears into the changing room to join Ava.
“The dress looks incredible,” I hear her sing, and I slap my forehead as I head for the door, needing air. But I’m slowed to a stop by a wall of shoes, in particular a pair of skyscraper stilettos. How on God’s green earth do women walk in those ankle breakers? I pluck one from the shelf and study it, mentally measuring the height of the heel. Seven inches. Seven inches! Nearly as long as my cock.
My bewilderment is interrupted when I hear activity, and I look over my shoulder. Ava’s there, half grinning at me. Glad she’s finding this funny. I shove the shoe back on the shelf on an epic scowl that goes way over her head as she pulls her wallet from her handbag and the assistant wraps the dress, taking a long-arse time about it too.
“Enjoy the dress, madam,” she finally says, handing the bag to Ava once she’s paid. “It really did look lovely on you.” She looks at me, and I roll my eyes.
“Thank you.” Ava slowly pivots, and I quickly find my scowl again. This isn’t over. That dress is not making it onto her body. Unless we’re at home. Alone. And it’ll be quickly removed again. This woman is impossible, just trying to prove a point. “Excuse me,” she says, stopping before my imposing frame, looking at me expectantly.