AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Puzzled, I tap the trunk, where her luggage is. “Didn’t you pack anything suitable?”
“No, because I don’t have the kind of clothes I need back in Chicago.”
My curiosity is piqued. “What kind of clothes do you need?”
“You’ll see,” she spins on her heels. With a captivating strut, each step a study in seduction and command, she heads toward the shops.
I follow her to the mall, and I’m surprised to see her going into a store with more leather and chain than a BDSM dungeon.
But what is most shocking is that fifteen minutes later, I, Nico Vitelli, am dressed in a pair of tight black distressed jeans, a soft black T-shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of combat boots. Clothes she picked out. Before leaving the dressing room, I tuck one of my guns into my boot and another into the waistband of the jeans since my shoulder holster would be rather conspicuous.
I step out of my cubicle and wait in the communal area of the dressing room. Sophie is still behind the thin partitions, only a few cubicles down—which is as far as I would let her wander in this impromptu excursion. The attendant wisely chose not to stop us both from going into the men’s changing room.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the slightly cracked mirror.
Fucking hell, I look like my own nightclub doorman decked out in his Sunday worst. Dante would laugh his fucking head off if he saw me right now. The last time I went out dressed like this in public was in high school.
This is not only ridiculous. This is fucking karma. I wonder how much penance I’d have to pay for ever conspiring to kill this woman.
And then Sophie walks out of her cubicle, and all reason evaporates as my jaw just about hits the floor.
She’s wearing black jeans that cling to her curves with an allure bordering on illicit, paired with a low-cut tank top. The top is laced up the sides with silver chains, revealing teasing glimpses of inked skin between each lace and showcasing a cleavage that could wake a dead man.
And as if that’s not enough to drive me insane, she’s traded her sensible pumps for a pair of knee-high boots with stiletto heels sharp enough to double as weapons. Her usually restrained hair is now loose, cascading in dark waves down to a point well past her waist, completing a transformation that's as breathtaking as it is maddening.
Sophie looks like she’s just walked out of my dirtiest fantasy.
She shakes her head as I look her over. “Eyes back in their sockets, Mr. Vitelli. I’m your therapist, remember?”
I want to laugh because her eyes are roaming over me as well. But my humor dies when I realize her gaze isn’t moving away from the bulge in my pants. She stares, almost as though she can’t help herself.
I slowly advance on her until I’m crowding her into the wall, bending until my lips are next to her ears. “I could say the same about your roving eyes, fiammetta, although I’m not one to complain about such things.”
The pulse at her neck beats a mile a minute as her breath hitches, “You’re my client, Mr Vitelli. So, even if I was willing to look past the fact that you’re a dangerous psycho—which I’m not, by the way—there is no way this,” she says, motioning back and forth between us, “can happen.”
I step even closer to her. There’s about a hair breath of space between us, but I’m careful not to touch her. “Didn’t you know? Rules were made to be broken.”
And if ever a rule was begging to be broken…
“Mr Vite—”
“Nico,” I growl, rearing back to stare into her eyes. “Say it.”
I see the moment her pupils dilate. Christ, this woman is fire with the way she responds to my words. “Go on,” I coax more gently.
“Nico,” she breathes, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like a lick on my cock. I lose it when I feel her small hands creeping up my abs, and my name leaves her lips again, this time on a moan, “Nico…”
I have to taste her right now. As I bend to crush my mouth to hers, a nasal voice cuts through our sensual fog.
“Did you find everything okay?”
The store attendant's timing couldn’t be worse.
Sophie's tawny eyes shift from a dreamy haze to wide-eyed alarm in an instant. She looks like a deer caught in the most glaring of headlights, seizing the moment to slip away. In her hurry to get away, she leaves behind not just me in the dressing room, but also her clothes and shoes, forgotten in the rush to escape.
Inevitably, it falls upon me to pick up after her—fate, it seems, has a sense of irony.
After I pay and get our clothes packed up, I meet her waiting by the Impala, her expression carefully blank.
