Chapter Thirty-Two
Rhys
Angelo drives us to a salon owned by my longtime personal shopper Danica No-Last-Name. She’s one of the most fashionable and experimental people I know, although her picks never cross the line into the bizarre, like pineapple hats or lobster corsets.
The location is new—she just opened it last year.
Chrome and polished earth-tone tiles that look like marble create a chic, elegant ambience, while several pots of deep purple orchids say expensive and classy.
I inhale the soothing scent of sandalwood and nutmeg in the air.
Danica said it was her own blend, not for sale, when I asked about it.
Lots of fairy lights emit a soft glow to flatter you in selfies.
I don’t bother with social media, but a great many of her clients do.
She greets us, her almond-shaped gray eyes crinkling. Her brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, which goes well with a jaunty little pink dress with a flaring skirt and booties the color of pale chocolate milkshake. “Max, right? You’re so pretty,” she says to Max, sizing her up.
“Thanks. So are you.”
Danica’s smile widens. “Rhys never told me you were this good looking. I should’ve known, though. He’s very particular. Heard you lost everything in that horrible apartment fire.”
Not only did it make the news just on the basis of being a horrific incident, but for the absurdity of it being a viral challenge gone wrong. Another reason I stay away from social media—it rots your brain and destroys common sense.
“Yeah, I kinda did,” Max says. “So I need to replace some basics—like work clothes and shoes.”
“And accessories,” I add. Max looks at me with surprise. I shrug. “Gotta complete the outfit.”
Danica nods. “He’s right. But I have some really nice items for you to try.”
She leads us to an airy room with two plush off-white leather seats and a low table.
On the top sit several colorful catalogues, along with fabric and leather samples, and a tray with some fresh-cut fruit, chocolate truffles and bottled water.
Danica doesn’t usually serve chocolate because I’m not a big fan, but I texted her to bring some out for Max.
“If we can’t find anything you like, we can tailor something, but that takes a while,” Danica explains.
“I’m sure we can find something,” Max says quickly.
“I think so, too. I have some fabulous stuff. Give me a sec. And please, help yourselves. If you want wine or champagne, just let me or Vanessa know.” She disappears.
Max twists the cap off the water while looking around. “I didn’t think I’d ever use Danica’s service.”
“She’ll do you right. I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.” I lounge comfortably on the couch, my arm draped along the back. I enjoy watching Max taking everything in, her eyes bright. Truly a rewarding woman to spoil.
Danica soon returns with a rack of dresses and a dolly full of boxes of shoes. “Here. Let’s try these first.” She gestures at the dressing room. “Go ahead.”
Max nods and disappears behind the door.
There is a faint rustling of fabric and my mouth dries as I imagine Max undressing, the black dress sliding down her gorgeous curves.
I draw in an unsteady breath as my mind conjures images of her leaning against the wall with her legs spread and her pelvis rocking.
Or her on her knees, pulling my cock into her hot mouth, her eyes on mine, lust flushing her face as she sucks me off.
I shift and try to think about something boring or gross, but can’t come up with anything. Finally, I pull out my phone and start going through my email. Although she handles most of it, a lot still require my personal attention.
I read a message from Beissen with a scowl, then make a voice memo with instructions for Max.
It isn’t my fault its executives are incompetent and the price isn’t as high as the shareholders would like.
If they cared about the company as much as they care about the share price, it might run better and I’d be spared this nonsense.
They’re lucky I’m not a lawyer, because I might tack on an idiot surcharge.
I go over the next one. Ohimesama is less inane, but also full of non-news. Just the way the Japanese do things—they drag their feet until they make up their mind. But once they commit, they go all the way. I type up some guidance for the team.
There’s a text from Grandmother’s assistant:
–Georgia: Did you get a chance to review the list? Any questions?
I make a face. Unlike Marie or Camilo, she’s actually competent, which means she’s more annoying.
I can’t just brush her off or distract her with some random trivia, like how cats can supposedly jump up to six times their own body length, or which porn star has the biggest breasts.
The latter would get Marie and Camilo going for hours, but I can just mute them and enjoy the peace and quiet.
–Georgia: Sorcha is open-minded and prefers that you marry one you like.
–Me: How very kind. And here I was thinking about marrying a woman I despise, just to please her.
–Georgia: That’s uncalled for.
–Me: What’s uncalled for is you interrupting my work day with this non-emergency nonsense. I don’t need your help.
–Georgia: Apparently you do, if you’re getting dumped by the likes of Gabriella Ricci. Sorcha was so upset. Gabriella should be grateful you deigned to date her at all.
I rub my face, wishing for a time machine so I could prevent myself from ever saying yes to Mom’s asinine request that I accompany Gabriella to that stupid event.
I’m never going to be a plus-one for a Platcher brand ambassador ever again.
If Mom begs, I’ll just tell her to send Camilo.
He can even bang the woman afterward—a full-service escort.
–Me: FYI, Gabriella’s worth a hell of a lot more than Coraline Vescovi.
At least she’s not flat-ass broke, and can continue to earn money with her face.
Coraline can’t, but wants to marry into money because of all that vigorous inbreeding.
I’m certain I read that in the sixteenth century, her ancestors kept marrying sisters and nieces and suffered from craniofacial asymmetries.
Might want to look into that, unless Grandma wants very ugly great-grandbabies.
–Me: Also, you should consider a career switch. There are plenty of jobs that pay better. Might improve your snobbishness, too.
Georgia doesn’t respond, probably too busy calling me an asshole.
I’m not lying, though. She could get paid far better, but refuses to leave Grandmother.
Her younger sister is a talented ballet dancer, and she’s hoping that Grandmother can use her connections at the Mariinsky to secure a meeting with the directors.
Shaking my head, I mute her. I’ll unmute her when I feel less annoyed.
“What do you think about this one?”
I jerk my head up to see Max slowly twirl in a stunning purple dress.
It’s cinched with a slim chartreuse faux-alligator leather belt and accentuates the generous curves of her breasts while making her waist appear small and sexy.
Violet stilettos elongate her legs and bring out the toned calf muscles.
I’ve never cared that much about what women wore, but the ankle straps are perfection.
Should definitely take her to bed in nothing but those stilettos.
“Well?” Max sounds a little hesitant. “I’m not sure about the colors. I think they’re kind of…unusual.”
“I think they’re perfect on you.” She could wear a potato sack and I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off her.
Her face blooms with a stunning smile, and my brain short-circuits.
She’s absolutely radiant, pleasure glowing in her eyes.
It draws me in. I want to wrap my arms around her and just hold her, sharing her happiness.
Then kiss her, because how could you not when you have the world’s loveliest woman in your arms?
“I adore the color combo on you. I just knew it’d be perfect, even though it’s a bit unusual.
Some people don’t have the pizzazz to pull it off.
” Danica beams. “Since we already picked out seven work outfits and a few casual ones, let me grab you something formal. I’m sure Rhys has a few fancy events on his social calendar.
Are you going to need help with the zipper? ”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Max says. “Thanks.”
Danica nods and disappears. I shift on the couch to get more comfortable. Those stilettos…
“Um. Rhys? Are you still there?” Max says from the dressing room, her tone a little hesitant.
“Yeah.”
“Can you come over? I need your help. Ow.”
Raising an eyebrow, I head over. She unlocks the door and gestures at me. “My hair’s caught.”
She turns around. Somehow a bit of her hair is tangled up in the teeth of the zipper. I try tugging gently, but it doesn’t budge. “It’s stuck.”
“Crap.” She tries to jerk the zipper down, then winces. “Damn, that hurts.”
“Don’t give yourself a bald patch. Let me see it.
” I stare intently at the teeth, trying to figure out how to get her hair free without ruining the zipper or hurting her.
I try pulling the zipper up—it moves smoothly, but the hair’s still ensnarled.
Biting my lip, I lower it slowly, pressing on the hair to keep it taut without pulling at her scalp.
The zipper moves with less ease, but it trudges downward. Finally, once it’s past the knot, it slides effortlessly, revealing an expanse of creamy skin I’ve wanted to worship with my mouth since this morning. My breathing quickens.
I move her hair out of the way, wanting a better look at the stunning red bra I glimpsed earlier…but it’s satin purple. My blood heats. She must be buying new underwear too. Given her taste, it’s going to be sexy as hell. “This isn’t what you had on this morning.” My voice is low and raspy.
She turns around. “Yeah. I wanted to try this one. Danica brought out a set for me, although I’m not sure about the panties.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
A careless shrug of her shoulder, then she raises her eyes to meet mine and whispers, “No crotch. Was that your request?”
The lust that’s been simmering boils over. “What if it was? Get them.”
A sharp look, although a hint of provocation glints in her gaze. “For when you’re horny?”
“For when I want to make you feel good.”
Her throat works as she swallows, the pulse fluttering wildly. “Shh! What if Danica hears you?”
“Let her.” I dip my head until our foreheads touch, our breaths mingling. “I love making you come, love how hot and tight you are when you spasm around my cock.”
Her cheeks flame. She puts a hand over my mouth, but I keep talking, my voice slightly muffled. “The sound you make when you come drives me insane—”
She yanks her hand away, then presses her mouth against mine, shutting me up.
I thrust my tongue inside, and her hands instantly clutch me for support as I push her against the wall and run my greedy palms along her shoulders and breasts.
I swirl the pad of my thumb against a pointed nipple.
She crushes her mouth hard against mine, and a moan vibrates against my lips.
She’s so responsive, so addictive, that I can’t get enough.
Even when I have her pinned against a wall and am devouring her, it isn’t enough.
Her breathing shallows. She clings to me, her arms looped around my neck like she’s scared I might vanish.
I plunder her mouth, shifting a little for better access.
She whimpers softly, the sound just loud enough for my ears, and tightens her thighs together.
I push a leg between hers. She instantly rocks against it, trying to ease the ache.
Through the fabric of my pants, I can feel the wet heat and pulsing in her clit.
My dick is so full of overheated blood, it hurts. Lust builds, stretching my skin tautly until the prickling sensation spreads all over.
A tiny voice in the back of my head says we’re in a dressing room and I should know better. Doesn’t matter. A huge urgency drives me, making me feel like I’ll die if I can’t be inside her right now.
“Rhys?” Danica’s voice cuts through the erotic haze.
Max freezes, her entire body tensing.
“Max, I brought a few long gowns and cocktail dresses for you to try. And some accessories—some cute belts, chandelier earrings and necklace. Your neck’s so long and slender, the last two should be really flattering.”
Max inhales shakily, then slaps a hand over my mouth. “Sure. Give me a second, will you? Also, do you have any strappy sandals? Maybe silver? What do you think?”
“Great call. You can never go wrong with silver sandals, especially with the formal wear. Let me grab those right now. I’ll leave the dresses on the rack.”
Danica’s footsteps fade and Max sags in my arms. “That was close.”
“That was unsatisfying.”
“Yeah, well, as hot as you are, I’m not going to have sex with you in a dressing room.”
“You think I’m hot?”
“The point is no sex in the dressing room.” The look she gives me is flatter than roadkill, but I catch a small twitch of her mouth.
I place a quick peck on her lips. “Fine. We’ll pick this up later.”
Her eyes narrow. “And no car sex while Angelo’s driving, either!” she hisses. “Even with the partition up!”