"I love it," I say, smiling. I take the one he's holding and put it back on the rack, finding my size. "Anything else?"
Damien rubs his beard, his warm brown eyes searching again. The flush has gone from his cheeks, and there's determination in the set of his jaw. He likes being given a task. This shopping trip is telling me a lot about him that I might never have found out in other circumstances.
"This one," he says, picking up an emerald-green lace bralette. The panties are like shorts that cut high on the ass. It's pretty as hell.
"You have an eye, Damien," I smile, searching out my size again.
"What about pajamas?" he asks.
"Yes. I need some of those."
He strides across the shop, looking more like a lumberjack than a personal shopper. His shoulders are so broad. I reckon he could pull a tree out of the ground and tear it apart with his bare hands. Somehow, his brown curls don't fit with the rest of him. They're too soft. Too innocent looking. Too tempting for me to run my fingers through.
"These," he says when I eventually catch up to him. He's holding a pink satin cami and shorts, and a black satin button top with long pants.
"Those will be perfect." He's even managed to search out the correct size for me. "You know, maybe you're wasted at Deep Repairs," I smile. "Maybe you need to become a personal shopper."
"Now you're teasing me, Sandy," he says, but his chocolate eyes are sparkling.
"No, seriously. You've got taste, Damien. Most guys would have picked the scarlet whore underwear."
"Most guys wouldn't have been imagining what would look good on you, though."
There is a flicker of electricity between us as Damien manages to look me in the eye and pay me a compliment without blushing. I guess he's getting more comfortable in my presence.
"What do I look like in your imagination, Damien?" I ask, gazing up at him.
"Like an angel," he says, and my heart skitters, making my head swim. This guy doesn't just have shopping moves. He's seducing me in public without even touching my hand.
A shiver of awareness passes over my skin as I imagine him. I know the outline of his body but not what it'll look like without the sweater. Is he smooth across his wall of a chest, or does he have a dusting of hair that would fit with his mountain-man look? Is his cock in proportion to the rest of him? I'm actually scared to find out.
"Maybe we should pay for these and hit another store," I say breathlessly.
"Sure," he says, taking everything from my hands and heading purposefully to the register. Everything is wrapped beautifully in dark blue tissue paper and placed into a thick paper bag that ties at the top with a ribbon. Damien pulls a huge stack of cash from his pocket and counts off more bills than I would ever have spent on myself.
A pang of guilt runs through me, but I push it down. This wasn't my idea. I would have been happy to wash my clothes and wait for them to dry. My car will be ready soon, and I can go home where I have plenty of clothes to manage.
This shopping trip is about Tyler keeping me here and showing me that he can give me what I need. What he doesn't realize is the thing that I really need—a discussion about what happened between us—is the one thing that seems forbidden or that he isn't willing to give.
"Where next?" Damien asks when we're in the echoey, high-ceilinged central part of the mall.
"How about here?" I point to a small boutique that I'm not familiar with. The clothes in the window look like they're good quality, and I can see at least one sweater that I like displayed on a mannequin.
I browse the rails, pulling out clothes and hanging them back up. Damien follows patiently behind me, carrying my underwear bag in his huge hand. "You see anything you like?" I ask him, fascinated to find out if his shopping skills are confined to undergarments and sleepwear.
Without responding, he begins to search out jeans, sweaters, t-shirts, and even a cute dress. He hands me a bundle of hangers. "What do you think of these?"
"I think I'll try them on," I say, smiling.
The store worker watches us with a bemused expression on her face, probably as surprised as I am that Damien has excellent taste. There's a dark wood and crimson velvet chair in the center of the dressing rooms, and when Damien takes a seat, he looks like the giant from Jack in the Beanstalk perched on Prince Charming's throne. "Show me," he says before I disappear behind the black velvet curtain.
As I begin to remove my clothes, my body is hyper-aware that Damien is just a thin sheet of fabric away from seeing me in just my underwear. The jeans and shirt look great, and I prance out, giving Damien a twirl. "You're definitely getting that outfit," he says, nodding appreciatively. Next, I try a pair of black jeans with a soft gray sweater, and Damien nods with approval.