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“First time?” she asks, before instructing me to lift my arms.
I huff out a laugh as I stare up at the ceiling while she measures my bust and then waist. “Had to get measured once for a bridesmaid dress years ago. It was just as awkward then.”
Tara hums with sympathy. “At least you won’t have to wear a dress that isn’t to your taste,” she offers. She isn’t writing down my measurements, so she must have an amazing memory.
“I don’t know about that,” I say, shooting a glare at Ambrose in the mirror. “He’s the one picking everything out.”
She doesn’t even glance in Ambrose’s direction as she shrugs. “He may pick it out, but he won’t force you to wear it if you hate it.”
The corner of Ambrose’s mouth lifts in a sly smirk as his eyes heat. “You are more than welcome to spend your time naked, little lamb,” he purrs and my face burns as I look anywhere but him. A low, dark laugh rolls from him and I can’t hold back the shiver that trickles down my spine. “But I think you’ll enjoy your new trousseau. It is time you stop hiding your beauty.”
I can’t help it. I meet his gaze in the mirror again, tentative like I’m the little lamb he calls me. The sarcastic retort dies before it can even form, struck down by the adamant declaration of Ambrose’s voice. It’s impossible to call his bluff when he’s looking at me like that.
“I’ve never seen a reason to bother,” I mutter, focusing on Tara moving around me and measuring my instep.
The assistant looks up at me, giving me another one of her encouraging smiles. “Well, you should want to show yourself off for your own sake.” She stands up, graceful enough I wonder if she’s some sort of fae despite her perfectly round ears, and holds my gaze. Her eyes are a pale blue, and it’s as if something has stolen the color from her body and left her with the faded remains. “Embrace yourself, Ms. Morse. There’s no need to be cruel to yourself when the world is cruel enough.”
Well, damn.
“If you would please take a seat?” Mr. Carter gestures to the couch and the pile of shoeboxes beside it. I do as instructed, relieved to be off of the stand even if it means sitting next to Ambrose. He is the picture of relaxation as he reclines into the corner of the seat, one of his long legs crossed at his knee, one arm stretched along the back of the couch while the other frames his face as he watches me with frank interest.
Tara leaves out of the opposite doorway that we entered and Mr. Carter distracts me by opening the first shoebox. To my relief, they’re black flats. Sure, they’re a much higher quality than my cheap big box store ones, but I was worried I’d be trying on tall heels better suited to A-list celebrities.
The man opens the second box after I give the flats a thumbs-up and my eyes widen. Here are the heels I was expecting, but damn if the black stilettos with narrow straps aren’t sexy as hell. I wanted to put them on even if I can’t walk in them because they’re so tall. I can just perch myself in a window seat surrounded by plants and work on my laptop, every now and then kicking my leg out to admire the “fuck-me” heels.
“So you do have a taste for the decadent,” Ambrose crooned in my ear, my cheeks flaming as I turned my head just enough to look at him. Any closer and our lips would be touching. I can hardly breathe, warring between two instincts. One is telling me to run away and never look back; the other is telling me to press my lips to his and take everything his kingdom and power promises.
Ambrose’s golden eyes drop to my lips, pupils dilating when I wet them quickly in my nervousness. There’s no one else in the room, not when my world narrows down to this couch, this space between our bodies, the air we share as we breathe.
The conflict inside me grows tighter and tight, like a violin string being tuned too tight. Each heartbeat is another twist of the peg, bringing me closer to snapping. I have no idea what I’ll do when it snaps.
The sound of a clothes rack being wheeled in cuts through the spell, yanking me out like a lifeguard from a raging whirlpool. I whip my head away from Ambrose, panting and unable to hide it. Mr. Carter and Tara give me the courtesy of looking at the clothes and giving me their opinions on each piece, giving me the space to regain composure.
Ambrose rises, and I brave a glance upwards. The vampire is as cool and collected as he always seems to be. Was I the only one who felt the pull between us? Is his interest purely in feeding and ensuring I don’t embarrass him when we’re in public together?
“Excuse me, there are matters I must attend to,” he says, and if he wasn’t so poised, I’d swear it’s Ambrose’s way of saying “oh, did I leave the stove on?” He doesn’t even look at me as he walks out, only calling over his shoulder. “I will collect you at seven. Do be presentable, Eloise.”
Asshole.
Chapter Eight
Ambrose
Istare at the computer monitor, reading the same email over and over again yet not comprehending it. It’s not that I don’t understand the contents. The reason for my lack of focus sits cross-legged in the high-backed leather armchair opposite of my desk.
After her fittings, Eloise wandered into my office and planted herself there, the chair set in a nook created by the hutches I kept my records in. A matching narrow table had just enough room for a pen and paper, or as she’s using it—a cup of tea and small plate of crackers, fruit, and cured meats that Joséphine brought in about ten minutes after Eloise had sat down.
It’s impossible to not study her as she works, her laptop perched on her lap. Some of her black hair drifted loose from the haphazard bun on the crown of her head to float around her face, her feet bare and ridiculously distracting. She shifts too frequently, reaching for the tea or a snack blindly, but her eyes never leave the screen in front of her. Does she know how many expressions she has while working? Her eyes narrow, a line between her brows as her focus intensifies; her lips purse and shift to the side as she’s debating a decision; the smallest smile graces her lips and her eyes crinkle when she’s pleased with her work.
It’s infuriating how much I want to do nothing but watch her work.
She only looks towards me a handful of times, seeming to study me, and her gaze burns every second I’m her focus.
It’s equally infuriating how my cock twitches each time I become her focus. Instead of addressing the issues of The Barrows, increasingly imaginative plans of every way to explore Eloise’s body fill my thoughts.
My cock is at half-mast as I picture striding over to the unassuming human, taking her laptop from her flying fingertips and setting it aside as I grip her chin with one hand and force her eyes to meet mine. She’ll glare at me for daring to interrupt her, but I’ll silence her fury by holding her in place as I taste her lips before delving between them.
Eloise won’t melt against me right away, not with the fire of independence burning inside of her. She’ll resist, just enough to make sure I know she isn’t like all the other humans who fall at my feet. Then she’ll give in. To a degree.
