I stop when I realize how horrible that sounded, and I’m about to blurt out an apology when he actually laughs. It’s the same chocolatey sound as his chuckle, but this time, his whole face lights up with it. My breath catches in my throat.
“That’s not inaccurate,” he concedes. “I’m not trying to insult you. Truly. I just need you to look a certain way. I know what that is, and you don’t.”
I lower the clothes, watching him for a long moment as he remains very still, as if waiting to see if I explode. But I can accept that he’s right. Idon’tknow what he needs from me; that’s precisely why I asked for his help.
I look down at the jacket. It feels as if it should be made of gold for that money, and it horrifies me that anyone can throw three grand down the drain on a piece of fabric. But it’s not my money.
“You should try them on,” he says, and we move through the racks of clothes toward the dressing room.
Jones picks out a couple of backup outfits along the way that are similar to the one I chose. I expect him to hand them to me, but instead, he carries everything for me as we walk to the back. I notice a couple of women eyeing him and feel a stab of something I don’t want to think about right now.
By the time we reach the fitting rooms, he looks bored. I go inside, flashing a tight smile at the attendant before snapping the curtain shut and trying everything on as quickly as humanly possible.
Clothes tend to look top-heavy on me. They’re either way too tight around the bust, and baggy at the waist, or the sleeves are too short.
But, to my amazement, without me even checking, he’s picked out the right sizes. I take a quick glance at myself in themirror, barely caring how I look, and then get back into my old clothes and leave the room.
When I emerge, he’s sitting in a chair waiting outside, and looks up from his phone, seemingly surprised.
“Didn’t they fit?” he asks.
“They’re fine,” I say. “Everything fits, just get whatever you’d like me to wear.”
“I thought you’d show me them,” he says, sounding disappointed. I frown at him.
None of the guys I’ve been with have ever brought me shopping before. Every single one of them would have found the experience deathly dull. I’ve never been shopping with anyone else, and having someone waiting to see the clothes I try on feels like such an alien concept that I can’t hide my confusion.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Jones, but I didn’t think you?—”
“Would you call me Gray, for fuck’s sake?” he says, genuine anger in his tone.
“What’smyname then?” I demand, and he stands up, buttoning his jacket.
“We’re leaving.”
He grabs the clothes and goes to the register, walking so fast I have to trot to keep up with him. Before I know what’s happening, he’s paid, and we’re heading out of the store.
I glare at the bag in his hand, realizing that he didn’t send anything back. That means he bought everything I tried on, even though I only neededoneoutfit. That infuriates me even more as we head back to the car, Mr. Asshole striding ahead of me and never even looking back to check I’m following him like some kind of lap dog.
When we reach his car, he throws the stuff in the trunk and turns to me, his fists clenched.
“Get in the back.”
“What?” I ask, and his eyes flash fire.
“Get in the back, Jacqueline, I swear to god, or I will put you in there myself.”
He wrenches open the door, and after a moment of hesitation, I climb in. I assume he’s relegated me to the back seat for the journey to the office, but I yelp as he climbs in behind me, shoving me against the seat.
“You are fucking testing my patience,” he says, in a dark, low growl as he slams the door behind him and then grips my hips, yanking me down toward him before he crushes his lips against mine in a molten kiss.
I gasp in shock, his tongue pushing against mine in a long, mind-numbing rhythm that has me melting back into the seat like some kind of damsel in distress. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me give up all control, but it’s both infuriating and addictive.
“Fuck!” I cry out on a low moan, wrenching my mouth away as his fingers push beneath my skirt and rub over my panties.
“What’s my name?” he says.
I groan as his finger roughly pushes against the fabric, trying to get inside where I really want him to be.
