I don’t know what he has planned, and I’m not sure I want to know. He told me he wouldn’t hurt Sloane… at least, I don’t think he would hurt him physically, but I can’t help but wonderwhathis plan is. I look at Sloane, an ache forming in my chest.
Maybe I could tell him not to go. Find some excuse or cancel at the last minute and tell him the party was cancelled, or…
“Come…” he says, his voice pulling me from my thoughts.
“Yes, Sir," I say as I follow him into the store. It doesn’t take us long to be waited on, and once the tailor checks in with us, he leaves us alone in the oversized room. Suits sit in alcoves, lit with warm backlighting, and there are several counters with folded shirts and trousers. The whole store is decked out in deep shades of mahogany and smells almost like Sloane—woodsy and expensive.
I peruse the racks as he looks through them, the air between us quiet. I glance at one of the suit jackets—it’s a dark blue with silver buttons, with what looks like diamonds in the center. They sparkle from the backlight and I run my fingers down the cuff, noticing how soft the fabric feels. It’s like butter.
I slip my fingers down to look at the tag and nearly choke when I see the price.
$2,000.00.
Shit.
I push it back and shake my head. That’s insane!
I feel Sloane come up beside me, his arm brushing mine. He leans in close, too close I think. I know we’re alone, but the tailors could come back at any minute.
“See something you like?” he asks, his breath warm on my throat. It sends a shiver through my spine, eliciting goosebumps on my skin.
“No,” I lie. I mean, sure Ilikeit in the same way I like a cruise—in theory, but not in reality. That suitjacketcost almost as much as my damn rent!
“Have you ever been fitted for a suit?” he asks. I slip away from him as I head towards one of the counters which boasts an array of ties and folded shirts. I shake my head.
“Nope.”
Sloane carefully saunters around the counter, stalking me like prey.
But he never pounces. Just watches me as I mindlessly trail my fingers over the smooth fabrics.
“Well, perhaps we should rectify that.”
I look up at him and freeze.
“What? No, I don’t need—”
“Eddie.” Sloane’s firm voice stands out and a moment later the short, stout, bald man who’d greeted us comes over.
“Have you found something you like?” he asks, looking at Sloane. His voice is thick and tinged with an accent I can’t quite place.
“Not yet, I’m afraid. However, if you would be so kind as to help my lovely assistant, Oliver, out here with some measurements, that would be a very big help.”
“Mr. Pierce…” I huff as his gaze meets mine across the counter.
That one look says everything. This is not negotiable. My insides twist and my heart starts to race as this spark of desire forms.
I want to do as he says, but I also want to tell him to go pound salt. But I don’t. I let Eddie take me over to the fitting rooms, which aren’t very big. A raised platform in the center is surrounded by mirrors, and it is only when we get up close, I realize there are only two fitting rooms, one on the right and one on the left, enclosed by thick, heavy, burgundy curtains.
“Up you go, son,” Eddie says, pulling me from my thoughts as he nods to the platform. I sigh, but figure it’s best not to resist. This will be over sooner if I go along with it. So I do as he says. When I get up on the platform, I see Sloane, leaning languidlyagainst the door, blocking the entrance to the fitting room. Draped over his arm is a small selection of clothes—jackets, pants, ties. I expect him to go into one of the rooms, but he doesn’t. Instead, his gaze fixates on me. I can’t look away. Eddie pushes my legs apart and measures my inseam, my waist. When I step down, he measures my shoulder to wrist, and my chest. I let him move me like a damn mannequin, both somehow aware of my body but not at the same time.
When he’s done, he excuses himself and stops in front of Sloane. They speak in hushed tones and Eddie lets out a chuckle as Sloane smiles, and then he leaves.
“This isn’t necessary, you know,” I tell him, crossing my arms.
“Oh, but it is," he says, that smooth, silky voice returning as he pulls off the clothes on top of his small pile.
He hands them to me. “You are my employee, are you not?”
