Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I wasn’t lying when I said she had my head in a tailspin.
I’ve barely had a cognitive thought all day.
“Not usually,” Octavia eventually replies, her delayed response reminding me I asked a question. “I was running a little late this morning, so I didn’t have time to pull it up.”
Goosebumps follow the trek my finger makes when I glide it down her silky skin while lowering the zipper in her fitted shirt. “Was there something on your mind that made you late?” I lean close enough for my breath to bound off her skin before asking, “Or someone.”
“Jack, we—”
“Shh,” I interrupt. There aren’t enough hours in the day to answer both the need in her voice and the concern, so I have to settle on one. “I’ve got you.”
After pushing the stiff material off her shoulders, I lock my eyes on one of the many mirrors in front of her, desperate to view perfection for the second time this week.
When Octavia spots my hot and needy gaze, her shoulders naturally roll back and her chest thrusts forward. I breathe out of my nose to cool my skyrocketing body temperature when the buds of her nipples harden under my ardent watching. It is a stare I admire as much as I want to triumph.
“Now your skirt,” I mutter more to myself than Octavia. “Do you remember if it is a side zipper or one at the back?”
I know her answer. I saw which direction her hand went when she commenced getting undressed. I am merely making sure she has no objection to me undressing her.
“It fastens at the side.”
When her hand shoots to the zipper, I curl my hand over the top of hers, then lock eyes with her in the mirror. The intensity of the zap that roars through us is ridiculous, considering the only part of our bodies that is touching are our hands, but I’d be a two-faced liar if I tried to downplay it as merely the buzz of lust. It is something much more than that.
The rise and fall of Octavia’s chest doubles when her skirt puddles at her feet. After carefully stepping out of the bunched material, she moves for the dress that’s rich coloring starkly contrasts with her flawless skin. The tension is so great, her thighs wobble more from lust than her float-like strides.
She curses under her breath after taking in the price tag Ana promised would be removed from each garment before she unhooks it from its hanger and lowers the back zipper. Dr. Avery urged me to give Octavia space to grow within our fledging relationship, but I toss caution to the wind when the beading on the dress makes it difficult for Octavia to slip into it without stumbling.
After helping her guide the weighted garment up her curvy thighs and over her spectacular backside, we slide it past her midsection. When our eyes lock and hold for the quickest second as we both hold our breath on if it will mold to the generous curves on her chest or flatten them, she mutters, “I can’t afford this dress. If it gets stuck, I can’t afford to pay for it.”
“I can—”
“No, Jack…” she forces out with a pained breath before correcting, “Mr. Carson. You cannot legally or morally purchase this dress for me.”
Although I want to take her over my knee for formalizing a moment that shouldn’t be formalized, I keep a calm, cool head—almost. “I wasn’t offering to purchase it for you. I was going to offer you a staff discount. I own this boutique along with many other businesses along this stretch of the coastline.”
“You own a clothing boutique?” Her tone is pitched with both shock and disbelief.
I’d love to wipe the riled expression off her face with my tongue, but I choose words instead. It is a hard feat. “Yes. Many of them.” I fail to mention I only purchased this one yesterday purely with the hope of a retake of the scene I stumbled onto Saturday at the thrift shop. “Markup is ridiculous. Hence, couture dresses are being offered for fourteen dollars in thrift shops.”
After taking a second to gauge the authenticity of my reply, Octavia exhales the breath she was holding in, lowering the swell of her chest by barely a smidge before saying, “You’re a horrendous liar, Jack.”
“No, I’m not,” I deny before helping her slide the dress over her ample chest, grinning when the measurements I supplied Marsha last night showcase perfection. Octavia’s dress fits her like a glove as will every other dress on the rack at our side because I had them all altered specifically for her. “But I’m considering giving it a whirl if it will have you willing to leave this dress dumped on the floor of your bedroom. You look hideous, Tivy. Completely and utterly disgusting.”