I look at the clothes. The dark blue jacket with the diamond studded buttons.
I let out a heavy sigh.
“Yes, Sir.”
“And as my employee, you represent Veil Technologies. Inside the building, and out of it.”
He nods to the clothing offered. I carefully take it, relishing in the feel of the fabric against my fingertips. It’s so fuckingsoft.
“This is simply just part of your job," he says carefully. “It is no different than when I ask you what you would like for breakfast.” His voice drops an octave.
“There is a big difference between breakfast and a suit that costs more than my fucking apartment.”
The minute I say the words, I regret them. Sloane’s gaze doesn’t waver, though.
“Not to me," he says. “I am only doingmyjob, Oliver. And that is making sure you have everything youneedto do yours.”
It’s the way he says that word. Need. The way his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Now, stop being a little fucking brat and put on the damn suit.”
A mixture of emotion builds within me. The desire to obey. The desire to defy. It’s confusing, but there is also something about his tone that makes me feel a little turned on, too.
“Fine," I say, noting the clothes in his hands still. “Asshole.”
Sloane chuckles as I head for the fitting room, and when I turn around, I see he’s taken a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the platform.
“Aren’t you going to try yours on?” I ask.
He appraises me with a smirk.
“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
My cheeks heat, and I shake my head, letting out a sigh of defeat. His words instill images in my brain of showing him more than myself playing dress-up. It’s a strange feeling. This frustration, but also this deep-seated desire to do as he says. To obey his command. In the fitting room, I take my time getting changed. I carefully adjust my cock, which seems to have a mind of its own, judging by the semi-stiff state it’s in. The trousers are surprisingly snug and fit almost perfectly, except they are a little long, but could easily be hemmed. The shirt—a pale blue—is so smooth against my skin, it’s almost orgasmic. It’s cool to the touch, but soft and silky. Comfortable, even though it’s fitted tighter than my usual button downs. And the jacket—I hold it in my hands, trying to get over the price. I know Sloane said it doesn’t matter to him. I’d fucked up by my admission, but Sloane didn’t seem to give a shit, though I suppose for a man like him, this is an inconsequential thing. But it’s not to me. I know he says he doesn’t mind—thatprovidingme what I need for my job ishisjob, but it feels like this is more than just my boss buying me a uniform or something. It feels more than generous.
I slip the jacket on over my shirt, the diamond buttons glinting in the light and take a look at myself in the mirror. The jacket fits like a glove, and I swear it’s the most comfortable piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.
I gasp slightly at the sight. Aside from my pants being a tad long, everything else looks perfect. And the pale blue… shit, it makes my eyes stand out like emeralds. The dark shade of the jacket juxtaposed with my hair makes it look almost gold in the light.
I look like a million bucks. And I won’t lie, I feel like it, too.
“Do you need some help in there?” Sloane calls, his voice tinged in apathy.
But beneath it, I hear the faint edge of humor.
“No,” I say, clearing my throat as I suck in a breath and open the curtain.
Sloane’s expression is mostly stoic, save for the faint twitch of the corner of his mouth. He appraises me with a sexy gaze, looking at me from head to toe and all the way back up again. He takes his time. Drinks me in like I’m a hot cup of espresso. It makes my cheeks heat and my damn cock twitch.
Fuck.
“Absolutely perfect," he says, his voice dark. “How do you feel?”
It’s the way he asks—how Ifeel.Not if I like it or if it fits okay. Something about that distinction makes my heart skip a beat.
“Comfortable," I say carefully. “Now, you show me yours.”
Sloane smirks. “So demanding for a man who is supposed to cater to my whims.” His voice drops an octave, and he gives me a surreptitious grin.
