Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
My kind of place, honestly.
In the back, the fitting rooms are roomy and private. There’s a small area with a coffee maker and mugs and a beverage fridge with chilled drinks. Viktor reaches in wordlessly and takes out two bottles of water. He twists the top off the bottle before he hands it to me. “Drink.”
“No wine? I’m disappointed.”
He only narrows his eyes at me. I’m not a fool, so I drink. I’ll need it.
“Please choose whatever else you wish,” Opal says. “You’ll find our clothing features a natural blend of luxury, comfort, and versatility, featuring diverse sizes and styles. I’ll leave you to it and be right outside this door if I can help in any way.”
My cheeks flush when she says diverse sizes.
We have plus sizes.
I sigh. Fine. There’s no need for me to try to squeeze into something that isn’t made for me.
I stare at Viktor, waiting for him to step out of the changing room.
“Well?” I say with a shrug. “Should I try these on or what?”
“Of course,” he says, holding my gaze with challenge in his eyes as he folds himself into a sturdy chair in the corner. I half expect it to snap in two. He looks like he’s trying to fit into a chair made for a child.
“Viktor.”
“Mmm?” He polishes off the water in the bottle. I must be out of my mind because the way his Adam’s apple bobs and the sight of his huge hand dwarfing the small bottle is so unapologetically masculine…
I look away.
“I don’t want you in here.”
I jump at the sound of him crushing the water bottle before he tosses it into a small wastebasket.
“I thought you might say that,” he says, his eyes as dark as storm clouds on a winter day. “I’ve been lenient with you, Lydia. I’ve given you lots of freedom. Unfortunately, you lost the privilege of privacy by setting a fire in our house.”
Not my house.
Our house.
He’s chosen his words deliberately.
“It’s not appropriate for you to watch me get dressed.”
“You’ve made it clear it’s not appropriate for me to step away.” He crosses his massive arms across his chest, his biceps bulging. “We’re wasting time, and it’s pointless. We’re getting married.”
“For God’s sake,” I curse. “Fine.”
I shrug out of his jacket and whip it at him as hard as I can. He catches it mid-air and casually shrugs it back on, his eyes never leaving mine. I swallow and turn to the mirror.
I hate these places. Mirror upon mirror under bright lights seems to highlight every flaw and bump and lump. I cast my eyes away and reach for a pair of jeans and a pair of black leggings. Black is forgiving.
“What was that?”
I turn in surprise to look at him.
“What?”
“That face you made. You looked in the mirror and made a face then turned away.”
“Did I?”
I’m focused on removing my fucked up clothes and not looking at him when I stand in front of him wearing only my underwear.
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe I’m uncomfortable getting undressed in front of a man I hardly know?”
“Mmm.”
He isn’t buying it.
I rip off the rest of my clothes and throw them into a heap. We’ll have to toss them out. I turn to face him. I want to take back some measure of control, and maybe standing in front of him wearing only panties and a shitty push-up bra under my ample breasts is one way.
I’m not wrong.
I intentionally bend over and pick a hanger off the floor. When I look up, his gaze is heated, his eyes half lidded, and a flush of color spreads up his neck, darkening his already rugged features. His jaw clenches, a subtle hint of his loss of control, and his breathing grows a hair heavier. The air around him seems charged. He shifts, his large hands flexed on his elbows as he seems to struggle to maintain his composure.
My heartbeat thunders.
It worked.
I do my level best not to wilt under the heat of his stare, fixated on me with raw, unhindered desire.
“You’re fucking gorgeous. Now put those on before I do something that makes us even later than we are.”
Oh God. Why does a part of me wish he would? Why does a part of me want him to?
I slide into the jeans, turn to the mirror, and try to button them. Too tight. My belly bulges, and the button doesn’t snap.
I turn away, mortified, and step out of them.
He watches me silently.
I reach for a second pair, and the same thing happens.
“Fuck those. Leggings,” he growls, handing me the pair of black leggings. “We’re out of time. I’ll pick out what you’ll try on.”
I’m not sure how that’s going to make us choose any quicker, but fine. I toss the jeans in a pile and step into the leggings. They’re soft and luxurious and fit me as if they were created for me.