Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“These are a yes,” she calls smugly.
I breathe in and close my eyes, gathering patience, and blindly snatch them off her finger. There’s two minutes of more shuffling and puffing from behind the door before it opens again, this time the matching bra coming toward me.
“Another yes.”
I leave her hand hovering in midair, thinking what a great gag that bra would make. I surprise myself. My thought isn’t sexual at all. I want to ram that sexy underwear into her obstinate mouth so she can’t talk. Then she opens the door a little more and peeks out. Our eyes meet, and that thought turns into an image. A sexual image. An image of Camille Logan on all fours, that bra shoved under her tits, and me smashing into her.
“Sharp!”
I jump, snatching the bra from her dainty hand on reflex. Fuck me, I need to sort myself out.
“I’ll be outside.” I stomp off, sweating, feeling so damn claustrophobic. When I reach the entrance of the changing rooms, I rest my back against the wall and breathe deeply, fighting away that image with all I have.
“Sir?” An assistant appears, pointing to the red matching set in my hand. I look down and immediately regret it, that mental image popping into my head again.
“They’re a yes!” I thrust them forward and brush off my hands, like the action might brush my inappropriate mind clean, too. This is fucking torture. I make a mental note to e-mail Lucinda to reinforce the point that I never want a female client again.
The sales assistant takes the underwear on an unsure smile. “I’ll get them wrapped.”
“Thank you.”
She leaves me to finish unraveling my tight muscles, but Camille appears, halting my task. They all coil back up again.
“Done?” I ask, praying the answer is yes. She has a knowing smile on her face that I wish I could wipe off. With my mouth, maybe?
She holds up both hands and more sexy lace sucker punches me in the face. “I like these, too.” She sashays off and places the sets on the counter, looking over her shoulder on a small smile. I keep my curled lip at bay and look away from her. Yes, I hate her. With a vengeance.
Ten minutes later, I can smell freedom as the exit comes into sight. I just need to make it through the beauty department again and hope Camille isn’t distracted by something shiny. I need air. My trained eyes split their attention between Camille and the door up ahead that’ll get me out of this god-awful place, my hand twitching at my side, wanting to push it into Camille’s back and hurry her along. No touching, I remind myself. Do not touch her.
I spot a woman up ahead armed with a bottle of perfume, spritzing lengths of cards and handing them to people as they pass. With the sunlight streaming into the store from the glass doors, I can see the air before her is a mist of dancing scented particles.
“Poison, madam?” she asks Camille as we pass, taking the liberty of squirting a card ready to hand to her. Except she misses the card and the spray hits Camille’s arm, startling her. I look down to see her rubbing at her arm, smiling at the woman. “No, thank you. It’s not my scent.”
“I’m so sorry!” The woman, mortified, brushes at Camille’s arm, too. “The atomizer must have turned!”
“It’s fine, honestly.” Camille pacifies the assistant. “It’s a bit strong for me.”
Forgetting my boundary, I push Camille on, through the haze of perfume-sprayed air. The particles drift up my nose, and I sniff, wincing. Then I cough, and the scent overwhelms me. I drop Camille, my feet grinding to a halt.
That smell.
My heart rate drops, my skin turning cold.
That smell.
I swallow and blink, seeing floating specks of torture closing in on me.
That smell.
I feel a flashback taking hold, nailing me into position, locking down all my muscles. I can’t move. Can’t escape it. I need to breathe, and when I gasp for a breath, my nose is invaded by a huge dose of the heavy scent, going straight to my brain. Poison. I haven’t smelled it in four years.
She used to wear Poison. My surroundings blacken, leaving room for only one image. Her face. Her face followed by the bloodbath in Afghanistan. Screams, gunfire, my out-of-control rage. I bend over and brace my hands on my knees, starting to hyperventilate. Fuck, I need to get out of here.
“Jake?” Camille’s voice is a distant hum. “Jake, are you okay?”
I draw in air through my nose, unable to control where I get my oxygen from. I get another potent hit of perfume and start to wretch, my heart smashing in my chest. “I need to get out,” I say tightly.
I steam forward aimlessly, bumping into people as I go, knocking aside anyone who’s in my way. The doors, so close but so far away. I fall out of the store, perspiring like I just ran a marathon, and fall against the wall in a heap of anxiety.