4

APRIL

That’s when I make my second mistake: ogling.

I can’t help it. All my Good Girl™ resolutions crumble into a pathetic heap once my gaze falls over the stranger’s eight-pack. And I do mean eight-pack. Two, four, six, eight. Taut skin over bulging pecs, a sculpted V-cut barely concealed by his unbuttoned pants, and a washboard I could see myself switching careers for.

I must be sweating away every drop of self-respect, because suddenly, I’m wondering if this guy’s in the market for a laundry maid. Uniform up for negotiation.

Get it together, girl. Get it— “Should I get you a picture?”

I snap back to reality. God, can this day get any more embarrassing? “I am so sorry, sir.” Covering my face with both hands, I make a belated attempt at respecting my customer’s privacy.

Which would probably go over better if I hadn’t just gotten a full frontal of his happy trail.

“That was inexcusable. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were thinking of something, alright.”

I grit my teeth. “I promise I wasn’t.” Grovel, April. Just grovel. “I just… I saw this tie outside and I…”

Suddenly, the tie slips from my grasp. I panic, thinking I must’ve let it fall. So I open my eyes again —

“Pretty little thing.”

And he’s right in front of me.

I swallow. I know he’s talking about the tie, but the way his ice-blue eyes trail over my frame makes it difficult to remember that. “Smooth,” he adds, thumb drawing circles into the fabric, his gaze still fixed on me. “Silk?”

Close. When did he get so close? “Uhh—yes. Mulberry.”

“Finest there is.”

I nod frantically. Maybe I can still salvage this. “The hue is very similar to the embroidery on the jacket. It would also, uhh…” Bring

out your criminally blue eyes. “Compliment your skin color.”

The man hums. I start to sigh with relief: shop talk has never failed to save my ass… “And yours, I’d say.”

… until now.

His hand circles my wrist. Trapped in that wide palm, my arm looks like a chopstick. It occurs to me that he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. It occurs to me a moment later that some part of me very much likes that concept.

He lifts my wrist up and holds the tie against it. “Mhmm. Perfection.”

I feel my face go very, very red. “Oh, well, you should really… try it on yourself,” I stammer, trying to draw back. “Skin tones can be… deceptive. I’ll leave you to it— ”

“Not a chance, Ms. Flowers.”

He grabs my other arm, lightning-quick. How in the hell is he so fast? That’s not the kind of speed that goes with that amount of muscle. Sure, he isn’t steroid-ripped, but still…

Before I can shake myself out of my reverie, the stranger’s got both my wrists bound.

That’s what snaps me back to reality. Customers with a poor sense of personal space? I’ve had those. Customers who speak like a phone sex hotline? Rare, but also not unheard of. In my line of work, there’s no such thing as too weird. Whatever the client wants, you go along with it, and you do it with a smile.

But no client’s ever tied me up before.

“What are you doing?” I squeak, doing my best not to let my voice crack. I test my bindings: the tie’s not looped too tight. I could break out of it, if I wanted to.

“I should be the one asking that,” the man rumbles, pressing me up against the changing room wall. I take a step back, but that’s all I’m allowed. Soon, there is nowhere left to go. “What are you doing?”

I’m suddenly very aware of how charged the air feels. How in the hell did I miss it until now? Am I so used to indulging my customers’ every whim that I couldn’t tell I was being cornered in my own place of work while someone cranked the sexual tension to an eleven out of ten and broke off the knob?

Apparently, yes.

“I’m… helping you?” I venture.

“Wrong.” The man’s breath is on my cheek now, his cologne overpowering in the small space. He smells like pine and ozone—the darkening sky before a thunderstorm. “You’re denying yourself.” “Pardon me?”

“You’ve wanted me ever since I stepped foot in here,” he states, matter-of-factly. “That’s why you ‘accidentally’ walked in on me, right?”

“Listen up, James Bondage,” I snap, feeling my hackles raising. So much for being polite no matter what. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but— ”

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m insinuating.” He sinks his face into my neck and breathes, long and deep. “Are you really trying to tell me you weren’t looking earlier, Ms. Flowers? Gawking?”

I squirm, but it’s not out of fear. More like shame: what must I smell like after such a long, hard day of work? My own perfume’s bound to have evaporated by now. No dollar store mix lasts that long.

But that’s not even in the top fifty of things I should be worrying about. What with the huge, half-naked stranger looming over me and all. “I was just… surprised,” I croak out.

“You saw something you liked. You took it.”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“Not yet,” the stranger concedes. “But things are made to be touched. Aren’t they? Isn’t that what you said?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“You want me.” He runs his free hand down my neck. Touching me. As if I’m made to be… “And that’s a good thing. Because, you see, Ms. Flowers…”

His blue eyes meet mine.

“I want you, too.”

The revelation shouldn’t shock me, but it does. Because, out of all the boyfriends I’ve ever had; all the strangers I gave a chance to in the dark, long before I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble —

No one has ever said those words to me.

And then, as if wanting to prove it, the stranger closes the last of the space between us.