More Than Want You
Page 39
“You know, I’m not the only woman on this island.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re telling me to go fuck someone else?”
“We’re not committed.”
That answer absolutely pisses me off. “I’ve zeroed in on who I want.”
She cocks her head at me, chin slightly tilted, hair brushing her arm. “We’ve talked about this. Just because you want me doesn’t mean you can have me.”
The teasing has turned serious, and I need to make myself clear. “You should rethink that. When I want something, I will pursue it to the ends of the earth. If necessary, I will still be reaching for it when I take my dying breath. I will obsess day and night until I have what I want.”
She tries to look unmoved, but I see a little shiver run through her as I stop in front of the door that’s our destination.
“I believe you,” Keeley assures. “This crazy plan to sabotage your brother that you’ve dragged me into proves you’re persistent. But you’re forgetting something: you don’t own me. Just like you’re free to fuck someone else, I’m free to do the same.” After tossing out that zinger, she tries to peek through the glass door. “Why are we here…wherever here is? This place closed ten minutes ago according to their sign.”
Before I point out that she is not free to fuck anyone but me for the next three weeks—and maybe never—the door opens. A woman in her mid-forties greets us with a wide smile. “Hi. Maxon Reed?”
I hold in a curse. This is a terrible time for the sales associate to be helpful. But she’s bending the rules for me. We have two hours to accomplish a shitload. I can’t afford to waste a minute. I’ll table this discussion with Keeley…for now.
“Yeah.” I shake the woman’s hand. “Thanks for seeing us after hours, Jennifer. You have what I asked for?”
“Absolutely. Come on in.” She steps back to admit us, then locks the door.
Keeley peers around curiously at the tasteful, upscale boutique of ladies’ clothes. Most of it is resort casual with a few evening-out pieces. I see shoes, belts, bags, hats—all kinds of stuff artfully placed on the walls surrounding the racks of clothes.
What I don’t see are the sorts of garments I requested. “Where?”
“In the back. Have a seat,” she invites with a smile, gesturing to a stuffed chair she’s dragged near a fitting room. Once I comply, she smiles. “You must be Keeley.”
My pretty accomplice nods cautiously. “I am.”
“Excellent.” She scans Keeley up and down. “Size eight?”
“Mostly. Sometimes a ten, depending.” She shrugs. “I like food.”
“I do, too.” Jennifer pats her slightly rounded stomach, but really, for a woman at least a decade older than me, she’s definitely fuckable. The me of a couple of weeks ago would totally have done her. “You look great, and I have plenty of things that should fit perfectly. Size medium underwear?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you’re a…” Jennifer cuts in and dissects Keeley. “I’m guessing a 34C?”
“In the neighborhood. Sometimes a D,” she says, turning a bit red.
I don’t know why she’s blushing. She sounds hot. Hell, she is hot. I’ve handled all the goods. Not as much as I’d like to. Not as much as I plan to. But Keeley has absolutely no reason to be embarrassed.
“Good. Sit tight. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
When Jennifer disappears into the employee-only area, Keeley whips her gaze around to me. “You’re dressing me from the skin out, including lingerie?”
“Yes,” I growl just loud enough for her to hear me. “And let’s get one thing clear: you are not free to fuck anyone else when you’re with me.”
She holds up her left hand, wiggling the finger beside her pinky. “Until someone puts a ring on this, I am. And I know that someone will never be you, so…I am free. Choose your battles, Maxon. You’re not winning this one. If you want me to wear this button-up Betty garb, I suggest you focus on that fight.”
Before I can reply, Jennifer emerges with a rolling rack filled with garments zipped up into dark, protective bags. The shelf at the bottom between the wheels holds something like thirty pairs of shoes. “I meant to ask your shoe size. Most of my samples are a six or seven.”
Keeley puts on a smile. “I’m usually a six and a half.”
Jennifer lights up. “Perfect. Then most of these should fit. Let’s get started.”
After she unzips all the bags and hangs the clothes meticulously on the rack, I see the caliber of the garments she’s brought and I smile. Tailored. Designer. Impeccable. The muted colors aren’t typical. Yeah, there are navys and grays, but I see pale peach and a powerful orange. A soft green suit with a leopard print trim at the pockets and cuffs catches my eye. I spot a really sexy dress in black with cream-colored cut-outs at cleavage and waist, giving the illusion of skin that’s actually covered. A pretty salmon-colored skirt snags my gaze next. On the hanger, it’s been paired with a silky white blouse and a taupe cardigan sporting just a hint of texture. This is a visual feast, and imagining how it will all look on Keeley is making my aching cock press into my zipper again.
I point to a classic pinstripe suit that looks designed to hug the body. The one deviation from tradition is that the lapels drape softly to ruffle down the torso. “Let’s start there. What goes beneath?”
“It’s actually designed to be worn alone. You can pair it with a shell but it’s not necessary.”
“So…cleavage?”
Jennifer nods. “Quite a bit.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you want my opinion?” Keeley asks me.
I try to keep it diplomatic. She warned me to pick my battles. I intend to win the war. “I want to see how everything looks, then we’ll compare notes afterward.”
“Fine,” she huffs.
Jennifer hustles her into the dressing room with several boxes of shoes and some lacy stuff that will no doubt make my heart race dangling from her palms. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I hear the ladies talking. Fabric rustles. The ever-helpful associate darts out from the little room to dash for her jewelry case. After a cock of her head, she reaches for several pieces, then hustles back to the dressing room. Another two long minutes pass before the door opens.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re telling me to go fuck someone else?”
“We’re not committed.”
That answer absolutely pisses me off. “I’ve zeroed in on who I want.”
She cocks her head at me, chin slightly tilted, hair brushing her arm. “We’ve talked about this. Just because you want me doesn’t mean you can have me.”
The teasing has turned serious, and I need to make myself clear. “You should rethink that. When I want something, I will pursue it to the ends of the earth. If necessary, I will still be reaching for it when I take my dying breath. I will obsess day and night until I have what I want.”
She tries to look unmoved, but I see a little shiver run through her as I stop in front of the door that’s our destination.
“I believe you,” Keeley assures. “This crazy plan to sabotage your brother that you’ve dragged me into proves you’re persistent. But you’re forgetting something: you don’t own me. Just like you’re free to fuck someone else, I’m free to do the same.” After tossing out that zinger, she tries to peek through the glass door. “Why are we here…wherever here is? This place closed ten minutes ago according to their sign.”
Before I point out that she is not free to fuck anyone but me for the next three weeks—and maybe never—the door opens. A woman in her mid-forties greets us with a wide smile. “Hi. Maxon Reed?”
I hold in a curse. This is a terrible time for the sales associate to be helpful. But she’s bending the rules for me. We have two hours to accomplish a shitload. I can’t afford to waste a minute. I’ll table this discussion with Keeley…for now.
“Yeah.” I shake the woman’s hand. “Thanks for seeing us after hours, Jennifer. You have what I asked for?”
“Absolutely. Come on in.” She steps back to admit us, then locks the door.
Keeley peers around curiously at the tasteful, upscale boutique of ladies’ clothes. Most of it is resort casual with a few evening-out pieces. I see shoes, belts, bags, hats—all kinds of stuff artfully placed on the walls surrounding the racks of clothes.
What I don’t see are the sorts of garments I requested. “Where?”
“In the back. Have a seat,” she invites with a smile, gesturing to a stuffed chair she’s dragged near a fitting room. Once I comply, she smiles. “You must be Keeley.”
My pretty accomplice nods cautiously. “I am.”
“Excellent.” She scans Keeley up and down. “Size eight?”
“Mostly. Sometimes a ten, depending.” She shrugs. “I like food.”
“I do, too.” Jennifer pats her slightly rounded stomach, but really, for a woman at least a decade older than me, she’s definitely fuckable. The me of a couple of weeks ago would totally have done her. “You look great, and I have plenty of things that should fit perfectly. Size medium underwear?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you’re a…” Jennifer cuts in and dissects Keeley. “I’m guessing a 34C?”
“In the neighborhood. Sometimes a D,” she says, turning a bit red.
I don’t know why she’s blushing. She sounds hot. Hell, she is hot. I’ve handled all the goods. Not as much as I’d like to. Not as much as I plan to. But Keeley has absolutely no reason to be embarrassed.
“Good. Sit tight. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
When Jennifer disappears into the employee-only area, Keeley whips her gaze around to me. “You’re dressing me from the skin out, including lingerie?”
“Yes,” I growl just loud enough for her to hear me. “And let’s get one thing clear: you are not free to fuck anyone else when you’re with me.”
She holds up her left hand, wiggling the finger beside her pinky. “Until someone puts a ring on this, I am. And I know that someone will never be you, so…I am free. Choose your battles, Maxon. You’re not winning this one. If you want me to wear this button-up Betty garb, I suggest you focus on that fight.”
Before I can reply, Jennifer emerges with a rolling rack filled with garments zipped up into dark, protective bags. The shelf at the bottom between the wheels holds something like thirty pairs of shoes. “I meant to ask your shoe size. Most of my samples are a six or seven.”
Keeley puts on a smile. “I’m usually a six and a half.”
Jennifer lights up. “Perfect. Then most of these should fit. Let’s get started.”
After she unzips all the bags and hangs the clothes meticulously on the rack, I see the caliber of the garments she’s brought and I smile. Tailored. Designer. Impeccable. The muted colors aren’t typical. Yeah, there are navys and grays, but I see pale peach and a powerful orange. A soft green suit with a leopard print trim at the pockets and cuffs catches my eye. I spot a really sexy dress in black with cream-colored cut-outs at cleavage and waist, giving the illusion of skin that’s actually covered. A pretty salmon-colored skirt snags my gaze next. On the hanger, it’s been paired with a silky white blouse and a taupe cardigan sporting just a hint of texture. This is a visual feast, and imagining how it will all look on Keeley is making my aching cock press into my zipper again.
I point to a classic pinstripe suit that looks designed to hug the body. The one deviation from tradition is that the lapels drape softly to ruffle down the torso. “Let’s start there. What goes beneath?”
“It’s actually designed to be worn alone. You can pair it with a shell but it’s not necessary.”
“So…cleavage?”
Jennifer nods. “Quite a bit.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you want my opinion?” Keeley asks me.
I try to keep it diplomatic. She warned me to pick my battles. I intend to win the war. “I want to see how everything looks, then we’ll compare notes afterward.”
“Fine,” she huffs.
Jennifer hustles her into the dressing room with several boxes of shoes and some lacy stuff that will no doubt make my heart race dangling from her palms. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I hear the ladies talking. Fabric rustles. The ever-helpful associate darts out from the little room to dash for her jewelry case. After a cock of her head, she reaches for several pieces, then hustles back to the dressing room. Another two long minutes pass before the door opens.
