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Marc located the fabric samples on the shelf where Darius laid out supplies he needed for the day. He was such a curious mix of hyperorganization and chaotic creativity. Marc loved that. Hell, he loved everything about Darius. He wasn’t just a smooth player with magic hands as Marc had initially thought, and that made not wanting him even harder. Despite what most people would assume of a man in Marc’s other profession, he preferred a connection with the men he fucked. He wanted more than a hot body and a talented mouth, although he wasn’t averse to those attributes.
“I have the samples,” he said as he slipped back into the fitting room.
Darius was kneeling on the floor. He stretched out his measuring tape along Mr. Scott’s inseam. His behavior was completely professional, and yet, he was sexy as fuck, on his knees in front of the man, sliding his hands toward the man’s crotch. Darius looked up as his thumb caressed the tape, flattening it.
Marc bit his lip. Fuck, he had it bad.
He set the samples down and woke up the iPad as Darius barked out the measurements he’d taken while Marc was gone.
Focus on the screen.
That lasted all of a second.
When he looked up, Darius was wrapping his measuring tape around the man’s waist. Marc imagined Darius measuring him, touching him, brushing his hands casually over his body, pretending to be unaffected as he leaned in close to Marc’s crotch, Marc’s cock hardening as Darius encouraged him to spread his legs.
Fuck. Now Marc’s cock was expanding for real, not just in his fantasy.
Mr. Scott had to be straight. He appeared horribly bored, like maybe he’d be checking his stocks on his phone if Darius had not told him to stay completely still.
“Hand me the brown tweed, please,” Darius said.
When Marc handed him the requested fabric, Darius looked pointedly at his crotch and grinned. The fucker.
Marc grabbed the other samples to hold in front of himself as a dignity shield.
“What do you think of this one?” Darius asked Mr. Scott as he laid the sample over his shoulder.
“Honestly? I don’t know shit about fashion. My wife sent me here. She’s tired of me picking the worst suits ever.”
Darius glanced toward the garment the man had been wearing and grimaced. “Your wife is wise.”
“Look, I trust you know your business. Your reviews sure say you do. I’ll wear whatever you decide.”
Ah, Darius’s dream customer.
“You’d like me to make up two suits?”
Mr. Scott nodded. “I would.”
“Excellent, and now that we have your measurements on file, I can make more later if you’d like.”
Marc and Darius left the fitting room while the client put his clothes back on. Darius made no comment about their fitting-room flirtation, but Marc wondered if he’d suggest a fuck break after Mr. Scott left.
“I’ll have those for you in two weeks,” Darius said when Mr. Scott stepped out of the fitting room. “I’ll call when they are ready, and we’ll find a time for you to come in and try them on in case any alterations need to be made.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Scott shook Darius’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“You too, sir.”
The man left, and Marc expected Darius to be pleased at how well that had gone. Instead he snapped, “Did you finish the inseam on Mr. Weston’s trousers?”
“Yes, sir.” Marc saluted.
Darius rolled his eyes.
“Look, I get that you—”
Darius held up a hand. “Don’t.”
Where was the laughing man who’d noticed Marc’s reaction in the fitting room?
“It’s almost lunch time. Why don’t we get out of here for a bit? It’s a beautiful day. We could use a bit of sunshine.” Marc wasn’t an outdoorsy type by any stretch, but working in a windowless room most of the day was harder on him than he’d realized it would be.
“We have plenty to do, and I brought my lunch.”
“So it could join the other salads rotting in the fridge.”
Darius glared at him, but Marc wasn’t fazed.
“Come on. It might improve your mood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my mood. I’m just not used to having to coddle someone all day.”
Marc huffed. He’d learned fast and done an excellent job, and Darius knew it. If he thought Darius’s talk was anything but bluster, he’d be offended, but Darius didn’t do praise. When something went right, he pushed harder, and when Marc screwed up, Darius patronized him or appeared indifferent.
“And you wonder why assistants keep leaving.”
Darius scowled. “Are you trying to get fired?”
“You’d never replace me.”
“Motherfucker. Where do you want to go to lunch?”
Marc stifled a laugh. “I—”
“Never mind, I want one of Ivan’s bagels.”
Ah, yes. Nothing like carbs to soothe him for giving in to Marc’s suggestion.
Darius was stonily silent as he led the way to lunch, which was fine with Marc. He’d have time to interrogate Darius at the restaurant. Now he could just watch his ass.
