“You’re killing me, you know that?” he whisper-hisses. “I’ve done nothing but think about being inside of you since I met you, and now you go and say something like that when we’re in a crowded mall filled with Christmas shoppers. And you’re family, who if memory serves me, will probably interrupt anything and everything we do.”
I sigh and take a step back from him before I come right out and tell him to take me into the closest bathroom and make good on that whole being inside of me thing. Jesus, is anything hotter than a gorgeous man telling you in a low voice that he’s been thinking about being in your body? Nope, I think not. Want to know the hottest thing Logan ever said to me? “Babe, we gotta make it quick. I have to be at a meeting in twenty minutes.”
Sam and I continue on our way and he pulls me into a large boutique store filled with dresses.
“Didn’t you say you needed something to wear for Christmas Eve?” he asks, when I question his choice of stores.
Shit, a Christmas Eve dress.
My mother expects everyone to dress formally for Christmas Eve dinner, and aside from jeans, sweaters, and my After Sex Pants that I grabbed in my haste to get the fuck out of mine and Logan’s apartment before he came home from work, I forgot to pack anything formal. We walk through the dimly lit store, the loud, thumping base of rock Christmas music a complete contrast to the soft romantic lighting of all white lights hung from the ceiling and glittery snowflakes dangling from the beams.
I glance at a couple of price tags as we walk from rack-to-rack, mentally calculating what’s in my savings and just how much I can afford to throw away on a dress I’ll probably only wear once. I could just tell my mother the truth, that I lost my job and she’s just going to have to deal with me wearing jeans and a sweater to dinner. You know, if I feel like spending Christmas Eve dinner listening to her cry, wail, and complain about me screwing up my life again and never growing up.
Sam pulls a dark green, low-cut wraparound dress from one of the racks and hands it to me.
“Try this one on. My treat,” he tells me.
“You’re not buying me a dress,” I grumble, refusing to take it from his hand.
“Fine, then consider it payment for all the food I’ve eaten the last few days,” he answers, checking the price tag hanging from the three-quarter-length sleeve. “I’ve definitely stuffed my face with at least $92.75 worth of food.”
He shoves the dress in my direction again, giving me a stern look that warns me not to argue with him again. He doesn’t say anything about how I can’t afford it or remind me that I don’t have a job. Nothing that would make me feel like a loser. The fact that he doesn’t say anything and gives the excuse of him buying the dress to make up for the grocery bill makes me want to jump into his arms and beg him to never leave me.
With a huff, I yank the hanger out of his hand instead of doing something stupid. “Ugggghh, fine! But if this thing looks like shit on me, don’t laugh.”
He follows silently behind me to the very back of the mostly empty store and I head into the dressing room, slamming the door behind me a little too roughly.
Why does he have to be so nice? If he would have just said something jerky like how he’ll pay for the dress since he knows I can’t afford it, my heart wouldn’t be thumping out of my chest and I wouldn’t be doing everything I could to stop myself from blurting out that I might be falling for him.
Kicking off my Uggs and yanking my sweater and jeans off, I throw them haphazardly onto the floor and slide the dress over my head, tying the matching green satin wraparound ribbon that holds the dress together right above my hip. Glancing down at myself, I thank God I wore a low-cut red lace bra this morning and the thing isn’t sticking out of the deep opening of the dress. All you can see is cleavage. Lots and lots of cleavage thanks to my full C cup boobs smooshed together in this bra.
Okay, so this dress is kind of nice. It falls right above my knees and it swishes when I twist my hips from side to side. Sam picked a good color to go with my long, dark red hair too. Turning the handle of the door, I step outside to see if Sam approves since he’s paying for the thing and find him standing a few feet away, shifting his shopping bag from one hand to another uncomfortably as store workers keep coming up to him, asking if he needs any help.
I clear my throat loudly and his head turns in my direction, prompting the helpful staff to finally walk away and stop pestering him. His face doesn’t show any emotion as he looks me up and down and I start to fidget with the skirt of the dress, wondering if I really do look like shit. Maybe green isn’t my color. Maybe my tits look like saggy bags of crap instead of high and perky.
Fucking hell, why doesn’t he say something?