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Smiling to herself, Devina approached him from behind and looked his body up and down. The back view was, as always, absolutely exquisite.
“What kind of suit do you need,” she murmured as she came around so that she faced him.
Oh, look. He was hard in those hunting pants.
“Business, is it?” She stared at the bulge in front of his hips. “Something dark blue or gray, then. With a bright white button-down.”
Reaching out, she touched the front flaps of the hunting jacket and thought of that Dick’s. She’d been right. He was the one who’d broken in—and he’d been in that Victorian walk-up, too, even though she hadn’t been able to see him.
“A red tie—or no tie at all,” she continued. “Maybe leave the collar unbuttoned, so that they see… your… throat.”
His eyes locked on her lips, and she gave them a little lick. Just so she could watch his eyes follow the tip of her tongue.
“Come with me,” she told him. “I’ll take you to the Tom Ford section—or maybe Ermenegildo Zegna. And we’ll find something that fits your size.”
At that, she put her hand between his legs and felt the arousal straining at his hips. As he sucked in a breath through his front teeth, she watched his fangs descend. She’d learned of late that she had a thing for vampires, and he did not disappoint.
He was long in a lot of places.
“Or would you rather do it yourself,” she taunted as she stroked him and then released her grip—
The snarl Lash let out was the sound an animal made when you took away its food, and the hold he snapped onto her arm hurt in a delicious way. Jerking her to him, he put her hand back where it had been.
His eyes narrowed like he hated her, but oh, man, that stare burned with something other than the enmity.
Leaning into him, she tilted her mouth as if she were about to kiss him.
A millimeter away from his lips, she whispered, “Sorry, it’s just about the suit, lover boy.”
Then she ripped herself free of him and walked over to the escalator.
He was going to follow her.
No doubt. Whatsoever.
* * *
Lash focused on the demon’s ass as she hipped away, her swizzle clearly intended to give him a taste of what, yes, he had been missing, fuck him very much. But damn it, after all those inductions, and the killing by that PUZZY stairwell—he wanted an outlet for the bloodletting buzz that was still rushing through his veins.
And she wasn’t looking back at him. Like she was so fucking sure he was going to trail after her like a dog.
He told himself he wasn’t going to follow.
Except then he was reminded that he was better with a personal shopper. He’d never bought anything here without one. Plus she gave good head.
Reaaaaally good head.
Falling into her wake, he closed the distance, the blur of merchandise and well-familiar luxury brands lost to him given the view he was being treated to. When they reached the escalator’s base and all of its static, interlocking, metal levels, he expected her to ghost up to the second floor. Nope. She took those steps like a champion, swinging her cheeks, the skintight black leather pants doing absolutely nothing to diminish those assets of hers.
The fucking heels were a nice touch. Louboutins, of course, the soles red as the blood he’d spilled tonight. And the night before.
It was his favorite color, he decided.
At the second floor, she took them straight ahead, and as he glanced around at all the displays of clothes, he was reminded of her place with the racks and the couture—and he knew why she’d come here. Self-medicating was real. She was missing him.
And couldn’t handle it.
He probably should have felt a shot of superiority at that, but he didn’t. All he could think about was getting into those leathers of hers—and the suit he needed.
He was here for a fucking suit, he reminded himself as they came up to the men’s section, which took up most, if not all, of the back of this part of the store. The suits were in the far corner, lineups of designer names mounted above differently branded kiosks and nooks.
The demon pivoted around and swept her hands from side to side, like she was Vanna-fucking-White.
“Is there a designer you prefer?”
Her spoken words to the contrary, she wasn’t actually asking about the clothes. Everything about her hooded eyes and her stance with her arms out was about her body, especially her breasts in their bustier. Man, she could fill the fuck out of those cups, the swells of creamy flesh so tempting, her already gravity-defying tits pushed together so that her cleavage was spectacular.
“Tom Ford,” he said in a low voice.
Now she walked backwards, her stare locked on his. “Double- or single-breasted.”
