And I’m back to planet Earth with a bang. Where I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of Vaughn West.
Someone, please kill me now.
“I am sorry about that.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting you for a while, and when Madonna comes on, you just have to sing along, you know?”
“Oh, yeah. Every time I hear Madonna playing, I have to drop what I’m doing and shake my ass to the beat.”
“Right?” I exclaim, sounding a little shrill.
I might be a tad flustered and flying high on adrenaline right now, which is why it takes me a beat longer to realize he’s actually taking the piss.
“So, anyway”—I brush it off with a shake of my shoulders—“embarrassing moment aside, I’m Charlotte Michaels; everyone calls me Charly. I’m your new dresser. I’m replacing Millie. It’s really great to meet you, Mr. West.” I walk over to him and stick my hand out to shake his.
He seems even taller up close. I’m not exactly short at five-eight, and I’ve got my three-inch wedges on, giving me extra height, but I feel like a little girl standing in front of him.
Vaughn glances down at my hand like he can’t quite figure me out, and then he looks back up at my face with an expression that says he thinks I’m mentally impaired—which isn’t surprising, considering he just walked in on me wailing out to Madonna and twerking.
Honestly, I question my own sanity at times.
“Vaughn’s fine,” he says but makes no move to shake my hand.
“Okay.” I awkwardly pull my hand back, trying not to feel like a complete moron. “Vaughn, it is.”
Then, we’re just standing there, staring at each other.
“So…” he says.
“Right. Clothes.” I snap myself to attention.
I turn to the table where I left the clothes I need to alter for him, and I pick up the pants off the top of the pile. Black Armani suit pants. He’ll look super hot in them.
“To start with, I need you to try these on. Ava’s notes said they don’t fit properly. I just need to see them on, so I can resize them for you.”
He takes the pants from my hand. “In here?” He gestures to the curtained-off area.
“Yes.”
Vaughn goes into the changing area, pulling the curtain across. I turn to the table and bend over, dropping my head on it with a silent groan.
Ugh. God, I can’t believe I was just twerking to Madonna, and Vaughn West walked in on me and saw me. I’m such a fucking loser.
I hear the rustle of clothing from behind me. I pick my head up, righting myself.
Vaughn West is undressing and quite possibly naked, only ten feet behind me.
Holy crap.
I’m actually starting to sweat a little.
I fan my face with my hand.
Jesus, get it together, Charly.
A minute later, I hear the rail rattle, telling me the curtain is being pulled back.
I turn around, and…holy shit.
He’s shirtless.
He’s just wearing the pants.
No shoes. Just bare feet.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Bare feet and ripped chests are my kryptonite, especially if the man has nice feet—which, of course, Vaughn does—and his chest…man alive!
It’s the kind of chest you want to spend days licking all kinds of melted sweets off. To be honest, I’d happily lick his sweat off his chest. Run my tongue over those abs and ridges, down that happy trail—
“Where do you want me?”
Is that a trick question?
I cough. “Just over here, please.”
He walks toward me, and my vagina thuds in time with his footsteps.
When he reaches me, I get a whiff of male. He doesn’t smell like I expected. I thought he’d be all rich cologne and expensive fabrics.
But Vaughn smells outdoorsy. Like cinder and spice. Like he just got back from a stint in the woods, chopping trees.
He smells good. It’s doing wonderful things to my girl parts.
I want to take a deep breath and swallow a lungful of him.
This is what two years of sex with only a vibrator and my imagination for company does.
Don’t think of the imaginary sex you’ve had with him in your head.
Don’t do it.
Of course I think about it. My brain flashes to the scene where he has me in the shower, up against the tiled wall, fucking me like a maniac. Exactly the same as what he did in the scene with Martha Vance in Ricochet. Lucky bitch. I just replaced her face with my own. I always come hard and fast to that one. It’s my favorite.
And, now, my whole body is on fire because I’m pretty sure it’s written all over my face that I’m having sex thoughts about him.
Jesus Christ.
Forcing my mind back to work, I step back and look over the pants, making sure to check the fit and not the bulge in the front.
“How do they feel?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“They look a little loose around the inner thigh and crotch area,” I muse, tapping my finger to my chin.
“Are you saying I have skinny thighs and a small package?”
“What? God, no!” And, of course, my eyes go straight to said package. “I just meant that the pants are slightly oversized in that area, and you need them more fitted, not that you have a small cock—package! I mean, package!”
Holy fuck, someone, please stop me.
My face is on fire, and I’m sweating like a donkey pulling a fat man on a cart.