“I would assume he does.”
I help her take a seat and then ask, “Do you need me to get you anything, or are you good right now?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Okay, then I’m going to go help Lia. We’ll be right out.”
I go back to the dressing room, knock, and then enter, only to find Lia standing in the middle of the room, wearing an off-the-shoulder cream lace dress that accentuates her waist and gently flows to the ground.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes slowly work their way up her torso, to her neckline, and then to her face and...something hits me. Something so strong, so foreign that I don’t know how to categorize it. Like this overwhelming sense of . . . breathlessness. For a moment, my heart actually stopped beating, and the world stopped spinning, and everything was on pause as she came into view.
“What do you think?” she asks as the attendant exits the dressing room, leaving me alone with Lia.
What feels like a million butterflies take flight in my stomach as I attempt to put words to what’s going on in my head.
“Is it bad?” she asks as she turns toward the mirror to look at herself, revealing a low cut, showing off her slender back. My eyes drag down to where the fabric hits just above the curve of her ass. “I think it’s kind of whimsical, but do you think it’s too much? It was the one that called out to me the most.” She turns back around again, and her stunning eyes plead with me to say something. “You hate it.”
I shake my head.
Holy fuck do I NOT hate it.
There’s nothing to hate about it.
It’s . . . Jesus Christ . . . she’s . . . she’s fucking gorgeous.
Swallowing hard, I say, “No, I don’t hate it. You look . . . fuck, you look stunning, Ophelia.” My words sound ragged, untamed, and unpolished, like something is stuck in my throat, and I can’t quite get it out.
The prettiest fucking smile I’ve ever seen crosses her lips as she says, “Really?”
I grip the back of my neck as I give her another once-over. “Yeah, you look—” I swallow hard. Just . . . fuck. She looks so good, so fucking gorgeous that my mouth keeps watering, my heart is beating a mile a minute, and I want to just . . . reach out and touch her. “Wow,” I answer. “Just . . . really fucking beautiful.”
“You’re blushing,” she says.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“Yeah, I just, uh, wasn’t expecting to walk in here and see you in a dress.”
Or to lose my breath.
Or to feel this urge to . . . fuck me, to kiss her.
That’s what it is. That’s what this heavy, foggy feeling is in my chest.
The butterflies.
The unintelligible thoughts in my head.
The desire pulsing up my legs.
The thought of kissing her consumes me, and I’veneverhad that thought before, not since the first night I met her. It’s like those ten years have rushed back in a fury, like a snapshot of time unfolding in a blink of an eye, taking me all the way back to the moment I ran into her in the hallway. Where I first saw those perfectly placed freckles of hers and the confusion in her expression.
Where her eyes fixated on me for the first time through her purple-rimmed glasses.
