Chapter 11 Clean Up
Clean Up
Maxwell
There are crimes against humanity, and then there is the garment Jax O’Connell is currently holding up in front of me.
"It’s a classic," Jax says defensively, shaking the hanger.
"It is an abomination," I correct him.
We are standing in the living room of Jax’s apartment. It is exactly what I expected: a converted loft with exposed brick, minimal furniture, a guitar in the corner, and a distinct lack of coasters.
I stare at the suit. It is black. It is shiny. It is, I suspect, one hundred percent polyester.
"It’s flammable," I note, pinching the fabric with two fingers. "If you stand too close to a candle at dinner, you will melt."
"I wore this to my cousin’s wedding," Jax argues. "People said I looked nice."
"Did those people have cataracts?"
Jax sighs and tosses the suit onto his unmade bed. "Fine. You made your point, Vera Wang. So what do we do? Go to the mall?"
"The mall?" I shudder. "No. We are going to see Giovanni."
"Giovanni? Is that a tailor or a mob boss?"
"A bit of both," I say, checking my watch. "Grab your coat. We have an appointment."
Giovanni’s is not a store. It is a sanctuary of wool, silk, and silence located in the financial district.
When we walk in, the smell of leather and espresso greets us. It is a smell I associate with safety. Jax, however, looks like a cat that has been dragged into a vet’s office. He is eyeing the velvet armchairs with suspicion.
"Dr. York!" Giovanni, a small man with a tape measure permanently draped around his neck, rushes forward. "It has been too long. Your mother called. She said you might be bringing a... project."
I wince. "Thank you, Giovanni. This is Dr. O'Connell."
Giovanni stops. He looks Jax up and down. He circles him slowly, like a predator assessing a particularly difficult meal. He reaches out and pokes Jax’s bicep with a gloved finger.
"My god," Giovanni whispers, looking horrified.
"What?" Jax asks, self-consciously crossing his arms.
"It is like trying to drape a suit over a vending machine," Giovanni announces. "You are too... square. You are a cube made of meat."
"I lift things," Jax defends.
"You lift too many things," Giovanni scolds, unraveling his tape measure. "Stop lifting things immediately. It ruins the silhouette. Look at Dr. York."
Giovanni gestures to me with a flourish.
"He is aerodynamic," Giovanni coos. "He glides. He has the proportions of a greyhound. You? You take up space aggressively. Your trapezius is offending my tape measure."
"Are you fat-shaming my muscles?" Jax asks, bewildered.
"I am aesthetic-shaming your geometry," Giovanni corrects, stepping onto a stool to measure Jax’s neck. "You have no neck. It is just shoulders all the way up. How am I supposed to fit a collar around this? It will look like a napkin ring on a tree trunk."
I permit myself a small smile. "Do what you can, Giovanni. We need a miracle."
"I am a tailor, not a magician," Giovanni mutters. He steps down. "Charcoal. Navy is too safe. Black is for waiters. Charcoal with a subtle texture to break up the... mass."
He points a finger at Jax.
"Fitting Room One. Do not flex. If you rip a seam, I will charge you double."
Giovanni vanishes into the back room.
Jax turns to me. "I feel like I just got roasted by a garden gnome."
"You are a tactical asset," I remind him, steering him toward the dressing rooms. "And assets need proper armor. Even if they are shaped like vending machines."
Ten minutes later, I am sitting on a leather ottoman in the fitting area, sipping an espresso Giovanni provided.
The curtain to Room One whips open.
"I can't do the buttons," Jax says.
He steps out.
My coffee cup pauses halfway to my mouth.
The suit is charcoal grey, Italian wool. It fits him not just well, but devastatingly well. The dark fabric emphasizes the width of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. The white dress shirt contrasts sharply with his tan skin and the dark stubble on his jaw.
He looks dangerous. He looks like a mob enforcer who also plays lead guitar in a rock band.
But his hands—those large, scarred, capable hands—are fumbling with the tiny pearl buttons of the cuffs.
"They’re designed for people with elf fingers," he grumbles.
I set my coffee down. I stand up.
"Come here."
Jax steps closer. He smells of the cedar sachets from the dressing room and his own heat.
I take his wrist. My fingers brush against the ink of his tattoo sleeve, which is just barely visible peeking out from the cuff.
"Hold still," I murmur.
I fasten the buttons. It is an intimate gesture. Domestic.
"The collar is wrong," I say. I reach up. I fix his collar. I straighten his lapels. I smooth my hands down the front of the jacket, feeling the solid wall of his chest underneath.
Jax is watching me. His hazel eyes are dark.
"You enjoying this, Max?" he asks softly.
"I appreciate symmetry," I say, my voice tight.
"Liar. You like dressing me up like a doll."
"I prefer to think of it as polishing a rough diamond," I counter. "Turn around. Let me check the vent."
He turns.
The jacket fits perfectly across his back. But the pants...
"The break is too long," I say. "And the seat is..."
I stop.
The pants are tight. Very tight. They cling to his glutes and thighs in a way that is medically fascinating and personally distracting.
"The seat is what?" Jax asks, looking over his shoulder.
"Snug," I manage. "Giovanni will need to let the inseam out."
"I told you," Jax says. "Squats."
"Get back in the room," I say. "I need to pin the hem."
We go back into the small, curtained dressing room. It is comprised of three walls of mirrors. Everywhere I look, there is Jax. Front. Back. Side.
"Take off your shoes," I instruct.
He kicks off his boots. He is standing in his socks.
I grab the pincushion from the shelf.
I kneel.
The air in the room changes instantly.
I am on my knees in front of him. My face is level with his waist. The scent of him is stronger here—musk and wool. I can see the bulge in his pants, the way the fabric stretches taut over his growing erection.
Jax goes very still.
"Max," he warns. His voice is a low rumble.
"I am pinning the hem," I say, keeping my eyes strictly on his ankles. "Do not make it weird."
"You’re on your knees in a dressing room," Jax says. "It’s already weird."
I fold the fabric of the trouser leg up. I slide a pin in.
"Your left leg is slightly shorter than your right," I observe. "Likely a result of the hip alignment from carrying heavy packs."
"Anatomy lesson?" Jax asks. "Now?"
"It keeps me focused," I mutter.
I move to the other leg. I have to lean in close. My shoulder brushes the inside of his thigh, and I can feel the heat of him, the hard muscle beneath the fabric.
Jax’s breath hitches. I see his hands clench into fists at his sides.
I look up.
From this angle, he is towering over me. He is looking down, his expression a mix of hunger and panic. The bulge in his pants is more pronounced, a clear sign of his arousal.
"You have no idea what you look like right now," Jax whispers.
"I look like a tailor," I say, my mouth dry.
"You look submissive," he corrects. "And it’s messing with my head."
The word submissive hits me like a defibrillator paddle.
I am the Chief. I am the dominant personality. I am the one who gives orders.
But looking up at him, feeling the heat radiating off his legs, realizing how easily he could reach down and tangle his hands in my hair...
My heart rate spikes. 110 bpm.
"The hem is pinned," I say hoarsely.
I should stand up.
I don't.
I reach up. I place my hands on his thighs. The wool is rough under my palms, but the muscle underneath is rock hard. I can feel his erection straining against the fabric, begging for release.
"Jax," I say.
"Yeah?"
"At dinner," I whisper, "when you are sitting next to me... I want you to wear this."
"The suit?"
"No," I say, sliding my hands up higher, dangerously close to his zipper. "The attitude. The way you are looking at me right now."
Jax stares down at me. His pupils are blown wide.
"And how am I looking at you?"
"Like you want to ruin me."
Jax makes a noise in his throat. He reaches down. He grabs my upper arms and hauls me to my feet.
He backs me into the mirror. The glass is cool against my back; he is burning hot against my front. I can feel his erection pressing against me, hard and insistent.
"Careful, Dr. York," he growls, leaning in until his lips brush my ear. "You keep asking for trouble, you’re gonna find it. I don't care if we’re in a boutique or a boardroom."
He pulls back. He straightens my tie, mocking my earlier gesture. But his eyes are dark with desire, and I can see the pulse in his neck quickening.
I reach down and slowly unzip his pants, feeling his hardness beneath the fabric.
He groans softly as I free him, his eyes never leaving mine.
His cock is thick and heavy in my hand, the tip already slick with precum.
I sink back to my knees, taking him into my mouth.
He tastes salty and warm, and I can feel his pulse quicken as I move my lips and tongue over him.
Jax's hands find their way into my hair, gripping tightly as he guides my movements. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel his body tensing. I look up at him, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine.
"Max," he whispers, his voice strained. "You're driving me crazy."
I continue, feeling his body respond to every touch. His grip on my hair tightens, and I can feel him getting closer. With a final, deep thrust, he comes undone, his body shuddering with release. I swallow every drop, feeling a sense of satisfaction at his pleasure.
I stand up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Jax pulls me into a fierce kiss, his arms wrapping around me. His tongue invades my mouth, tasting himself on me, and I can feel his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
"We’re buying the suit," he says, his voice rough with emotion.
"Yes," I breathe. "We are."
"Good. Now get out of here before I get us banned from this store for life."
I step out of the dressing room. My legs feel unsteady.
I walk to the counter. Giovanni looks up from his ledger. He looks at my flushed face. He looks at the curtain, where Jax is changing.
Giovanni smiles. A knowing, smug little smile.
"The fit?" Giovanni asks. "It was... satisfactory?"
I pull out my credit card. My hand is shaking.
"It was perfect," I say. "Wrap it up."
I stare at the curtain.
I have created a monster. And God help me, I cannot wait to show him off.