Page 21 of Wardrobe Malfunction

“That’s a tad dramatic. It was just a tiny pin.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as angry as he looks right now. His face his red, bordering purple.

“Okay, so let me stick a tiny pin in your clit and see how you get on,” he grits out.

“Okay. Point taken.” I clamp my thighs together.

And I watch quietly as he takes a few deep breaths before he takes ahold of the pin and yanks it out.

“Motherfucker!”

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay!” he snaps.

He opens the button on the pants and carefully pulls the zipper down, and I realize he’s about to check his damaged goods.

Should I look away or watch? That’s the million-dollar question.

“Can you turn around?” he barks at me.

“I was just about to,” I mumble, turning away.

And I swear to God I was going to.

I hear him groan.

“Christ, I’m fucking bleeding. What the hell kind of pin was that? And what the hell kind of seamstress are you?”

I have to stop myself from correcting him that I’m actually a wardrobe assistant and not a seamstress, but something tells me that wouldn’t go down too well. So, all I say is, “Sorry,” for the hundredth time.

A few seconds later, I hear movement and then feet shuffling.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

I see him limping toward the changing room—in only his boxer shorts.

Holy cow! He’s naked! Well, not completely naked, but…

He has great legs. Really long and toned.

And I just stabbed him in his ball sack.

That thought quickly drenches my pervy libido right back down.

“Can I do anything?” I ask quietly.

“No.”

Okay then.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get his cell from his jeans pocket, which are hanging on the peg in there.

He dials and puts the phone to his ear, his other hand cupping his junk over his boxer shorts.

God, I can’t believe I stabbed him with a pin. All these years I’ve been doing this job, and I’ve never stabbed anyone—oh, fuck. He’s making a call. What if he’s calling to get me fired?

“Vaughn…Mr. West.” I turn to face him, not bothering to care that he’s practically naked, and I press my hands together in front of me in a pleading manner. “I really am sorry. It was an accident and—”