Chapter 9 #2
That lasted five seconds.
He stopped dead in front of a mannequin in the men’s section. “Remarkable. The modern sculpture techniques are flawless. Look at the smoothness of the stone. Who is the artist?”
“That’s plastic,” I said.
He blinked. “The artist’s name is Plastic?”
I rubbed my temples. “No. It’s… never mind. Focus.”
Cristian moved down the row of clothing racks, studying every detail with quiet disapproval. “You want me to wear these fabrics?”
“Yes.”
“They look flimsy.”
“Welcome to fast fashion.”
He sighed. “Very well. Choose what you deem appropriate.”
I picked out jeans, a pair of slacks, some shirts, and underwear. He held up the last item between two fingers. “What purpose do these small garments serve?”
“They’re… necessary. Trust me.”
His expression remained skeptical, but he followed me to the changing rooms.
He stopped in front of the door. “You expect me to remove my clothes in a public building?”
“They’re private rooms,” I said. “No one will see you.”
“That seems optimistic.”
“Just try them on.”
The door closed. A few minutes later, it opened again, and my entire brain went offline.
Jeans. Light blue henley. Bare forearms.
He looked at me, waiting. “Does this look acceptable?”
I swallowed. “Yeah. Um. Perfect. That’s… fine.”
He turned slightly, testing the fabric. I pretended not to notice every muscle shifting under the shirt.
Two women across the aisle stopped mid-conversation. One whispered, “Oh my God.”
The other said, “That jawline should be illegal.”
I understood completely. Then I hated that I understood. My hands twitched at my sides, an involuntary little flare of something sharp and possessive.
He went back into the fitting room. When he came out again, he was wearing slacks and a tight dark sweater with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked expensive. Composed. Like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread about brooding immortals with perfect hair.
“How do you even know how to wear clothes?” I muttered.
He arched an eyebrow. “I have dressed myself before, believe it or not.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, a little too fast.
The tether between us hummed again, stronger this time. I felt it low in my stomach, heavy and distracting. I snatched a pair of shoes from the display and tossed them toward him before my brain could do something catastrophic, like push him back into the dressing room and make bad decisions.
He caught them easily. “You could have handed them to me.”
“Nope,” I said, backing up. “Too risky.”
He looked at the shoes, then back at me. “I have never been so confused, and yet so entertained.”
“Fuck my life.” I turned before he saw how much I was not okay.
Cristian disappeared back into the dressing room.
I exhaled, pressing my hands to my face. My pulse hadn’t slowed since he’d walked out wearing that henley. My brain kept circling the same thought: Don’t be the girl who gets horny in a Macy’s.
I tried to focus on anything else—the pattern on the carpet, the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, the price tags—but then I heard rustling and a muffled grunt.
“Nadia?”
I froze. “What?”
“I may require assistance,” he said. “Before I tear this garment from my body.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are perfectly capable of undressing yourself.”
“No, really,” he said, sounding far too calm. “I’m in quite the bind.”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. Let me in before you start a scene.”
He opened the door just wide enough for me to slip inside.
I stepped in—and stopped.
The sweater was halfway over his head, caught at his shoulders. His arms were pinned, muscles flexing under the fabric. His chest was bare where the material had ridden up, and he let out a low, frustrated sound that did not help my brain function.
“Oh,” I said faintly. “Yeah. That’s… definitely stuck.”
“I told you,” he said, voice muffled. “It refuses to yield.”
“Okay, hold still,” I said, trying not to look directly at his muscular chest. “If you move, you’ll rip it.”
He didn’t move. I tugged gently. Nothing happened. We adjusted, shuffled, bumped. His breath grazed my temple.
“Lift your arms higher,” I said.
“They are already higher.”
“Okay, well, try harder.”
We kept maneuvering until the fabric finally gave way—and with it, all sense of gravity.
Cristian stumbled forward, catching himself against the wall. I ended up between him and it, our chests touching, both of us breathing hard.
The tether between us hummed, sharp and insistent. When his breath hit my neck, the air changed.
Neither of us moved.
He looked down at me, eyes darker than before. His hand rested at my hip, fingers tense but unmoving. Heat radiated from him, overwhelming my senses.
Every logical part of me screamed step away. The rest of me wanted him to keep going until I forgot my own name.
Then someone pounded on the door. “Is anyone using this room?”
I jerked. “Yes!” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “Just a minute.”
Cristian stayed where he was, gaze locked on mine, still breathing unevenly.
I smoothed my hair, desperate to look composed. “I’ll… uh… wait outside.”
He nodded once. I slipped past him, ducked through the door, and nearly walked into a clothing rack. My hands were shaking.
Behind me, Cristian laughed under his breath.
Ignoring the heat crawling up my neck, I muttered, “I hate shopping.”