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“Gentle,” I mutter.
His mouth is at my ear fast as he draws the zip up. “You wouldn’t be saying that if I was still buried Billy Big Balls deep inside you.”
“But you’re not.” I sound like a petulant child, my slighted state unmistakable. I had one stroke—an amazing stroke—and I want more.
With a pat of my bottom, he whips the curtain across and takes the zip of my dress. “We’re having a problem getting it off.” He wriggles it, as if to demonstrate. “Could do with some help.”
I wait for the sales assistant to take in the scene, to conclude what’s been going on in here, and when her eyes drop to the floor and she frowns, I find my stare following hers to whatever has her attention.
The collection of condoms. And the empty wrapper.
Oh my. I cringe as my partner in crime coughs, dipping and scooping them up. “Must have fallen out of my wallet.”
“Indeed.” The sales assistant’s arms fold across her chest. “And is the dress suitable?”
“Very,” he confirms. “We’ll take it.” Turning me around again, he unzips me. “Oh, and look at that. The zip’s working again.” He ushers the haughty looking sales assistant away before whipping the curtain across and helping me out of the dress, and I can do nothing more than let him. I suppose a husband and wife getting down and dirty in a public place is more acceptable than complete strangers.
Pulling the curtain back a little, he steps out and hands her the dress, flashing a dashing smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have it wrapped and bagged.” She gives me the eye past my accomplice as I pull my trousers back on, forcing me to look away, my cheeks heating.
I want to explain myself, tell her that I’d never usually be so wild and reckless. But instead I murmur a meek, “Thank you,” as she leaves. “Oh my God.” I put my head in my hands, so mortified. “I’m not facing that woman again,” I tell him straight.
“Me either.” He collects my blouse from the floor and helps me into it.
“But you told her we’d take it.”
“I was trying to appease her.” Scooping up our bags, he grabs my hand. “Ready to walk the walk of shame out of Harrods?”
“Can we run?”
He laughs and starts jogging, tugging me along behind him, and when we break out of the changing rooms, we run in the opposite direction of the cashier desk, both of us laughing like fools.
When we make it outside the store doors, I fall against the window and try to catch my breath, and he joins me. “I’m knackered for the wrong reason.” He rolls his head toward me, giving me a melt-worthy smile. “But it’s still the best shopping trip I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too,” I agree, holding his eyes as we both wait for our labored breathing to come down. Mr. Sexy as Fuck. Oh, how sexy you really are, especially standing here all disheveled and sexed-up. “It was nice almost knowing you,” I say on a coy smile, taking my bags from his hands. “Do you make a habit of seducing innocent women in department stores?”
“Never,” he answers without hesitation, and, oddly, I believe him. Past his handsomeness and that dash of cockiness, there’s a nice, genuine guy. Maybe it’s my Wanker Sensor working, or it’s simple women’s intuition. Maybe losing his silly bet is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. “Do you make a habit of distracting men in department stores?” he asks.
“I generally avoid men,” I admit, ignoring his raging curiosity as I pull my phone from my bag. I have a mild panic attack when I see my ma’s calling me. “What’s up?” I say when I answer, hoping they’ve not broken down, or hit traffic, or worse, had an accident.
“Ringing with an ETA,” she sings. “We’ll be two hours.”
“What?” I throw my panicked eyes at Mr. Sexy as Fuck, though he couldn’t possibly know what I’m panicking about. They said eight o’clock. It’s not even five-thirty.
“The traffic is being good to us,” she says. “Right, Seamus?”
“Right,” Dad grunts from beside her in the car.
I start running, needing to get home ASAP. I’ve got to tidy up, make the guest beds, and prepare supper. “Fuck,” I curse as I pick up pace and pull out my purse, diving in a cab and throwing my instructions at the driver, at the same time waving my cash at him. Thankfully, sensing my urgency, he pulls away from the curb quickly. I look out the back window to see him standing in the road watching me, and as the distance between us grows, I’m torn, bouncing between stopping and giving him my number, or continuing on my way. But then it registers . . . he didn’t try to stop me leaving. I might have been fast about it—fast and panicked—but a shout would have snapped me back to the moment and reminded me of our deal. Hell, the man has feet—that probably match his truly well-honed body—so don’t tell me he can’t run. He could have caught up with me with ease and stopped me. He could have reminded me of our dinner deal. But he didn’t. Has he changed his mind given he didn’t succeed in having a good screw in the ladies’ changing room? I laugh—it sounds wicked—and turn around in my seat. “Silly, Shannon,” I say to myself. But my laugh fades quickly. Did that really happen? Did I really flirt with a stranger? Did I almost have sex in a ladies’ changing room in Harrods on Christmas Eve? My cheeks puff out, and I shake my head, trying to get my brain back to the present. Back to reality. “On with real life, Shannon. Living on the edge is not for you.”
