God damn it. Focus, Shannon. Where was I heading? Quickly gathering my thoughts, I zoom off to ladies wear, and hit the jackpot when I see a beautiful scarf for Ma that’ll do her well this winter. I’ve paid for it two minutes later, and I’m on my way to the food hall, having had divine inspiration from the cashier who helpfully suggested a hamper for my dad, since he’s a real foody, and anything from Harrods would be a real treat.
I pick out a medium-sized basket, packed with lovely cheeses, chutneys, and biscuits. “Perfect.” I give myself a little pat on the back, at the same time wondering how my competitor is getting on.
And just as I’m wondering that, he literally skids into the food hall on his expensive leather-soled shoes and looks around frantically. I don’t want to count my chickens, but he looks flustered. And a quick glance at his hands tells me he still only has two bags—one for the sunglasses and one for the doll. Oh, the feeling is too good.
Since I’m obviously winning, I take a precious minute to admire him while he’s unaware, noticing for the first time when he moves to the cheese counter that he has on a rather snazzy pair of socks, the turquoise color with grey spots complementing his grey suit nicely. He’s really well put together, and obviously takes pride in his appearance. What does he do for a living? How old is he? I laugh out loud. What’s his name?
He’s facing away from me as I wander over to him, browsing the cheese counter. I reach up on my tippy-toes, getting my mouth close to his ear. And I inhale his lovely scent. “Victory smells good,” I say quietly, and he stills for a moment, and then slowly turns to face me. His wry, knowing smile hits me between my thighs.
“I don’t know,” he purrs. “Smells kind of cheesy to me.” Dipping quickly, he steals a kiss of my cheek, startling me, and his mouth lingers for long enough to send me back into a trance. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he breathes across my skin. “I really want dinner.”
And I really want you.
What? Shocked by my thoughts, I pull back quickly and move past him. “You’re not getting it,” I retort with a smile that suggests otherwise. “I have one more gift to buy.”
“And I’m still looking forward to dinner.”
His cocky answer has my feet moving faster, and I head to the men’s department to claim my victory. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s given me the idea for my final gift. I select a few pairs of socks from the array of fancy pairs and make my way to the checkout, but I stop halfway there, thinking. But only for a moment. Reversing my steps, I carefully select one more pair and quickly pay for them.
Then I make a mad dash for the elevators where we agreed to meet, as I stuff my purse into my bag and my heart pumps with anticipation. There’s no way he could have beaten me. I smile to myself, already relishing my victory—smug as can be—but it all falls away when I round the corner, finding Mr. Sexy as Fuck sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his knees bent, his face a million shades of self-satisfied. Looking up at me, he performs an over-the-top yawn and a stretch. “What took you so long?”
My shoulders drop. “How?” I scan the floor at his feet. He still only has two bags.
Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulls out something and flashes it at me. “Gift cards.”
My mouth falls open, stunned. “You can’t do that.”
“They’re all within the budget.” He pushes himself to his feet and tucks them back into his pocket. “The budget you specified, I might add. There were no rules about gift cards.”
“But . . .” I fade off, frantically searching for a loophole to supersede the one he’s found, the cheating pig. “But . . .” I have nothing. He’s done me over, and I’m pissed off about it, the clever, annoying sod.
“But, but, but,” he parrots condescendingly, swaggering toward me and bending to get his face close to mine. “Look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?” I grumble. I’ve lost the bet. I’m not good with losing.
Stealing another kiss of my cheek, he turns me and slings his arm over my shoulder. It feels good, and momentarily chases away my slight. “You get to have dinner with me.”
“It’s not a bad consolation prize, I suppose,” I tease, earning a nudge of his shoulder. I chuckle as he leads the way, but then frown when I realize he’s walked us to ladies wear. “Why are we here?”
Releasing me, he starts browsing dresses, pulling various styles and colors out. “The store closes in twenty minutes, giving us just enough time to find you a new dress for our dinner.”
I snort. Maybe, but that dress won’t be bought here. “I’m more of a High Street kind of girl.”
He holds up a lovely black short number, which probably has an insane price tag attached. “I’m buying.”
“What?”
Collecting me, he directs my dazed form to the nearest changing room, practically placing me inside one of the cubicles. He hands me the hanger. “I’m buying, therefore I get to choose. And I like this one. Put it on.” He whips the curtain across, and I stare at the dress for a good few moments, pondering what to do. I can’t let him buy me a dress. I’ve known him a matter of minutes. “I can’t accept this,” I say to the curtain, and it’s quickly whipped across again.
He smiles at me. “Yes, you can. Now try the dress on.” He disappears behind the curtain again, and I shrug to myself, starting to strip down. When I’m standing in my underwear, it occurs to me that I’m virtually naked, and there is only a pathetic piece of material between us. Is he thinking the same? I look down my body. It’s not bad. I have great boobs, good upper arms. I’ve slacked at the gym in recent weeks, not surprising given my demanding new boss. Or rather, his exacting wife. I bet Mr. Sexy as Fuck works out every day. I bet under that suit is the body of an Adonis. I bet there’s not one scrap of fat on him. I bet . . .
No bets.
I get into the dress and bend my arms up my back to try and fasten the zip. “Does it fit?” he asks through the curtain.
“I don’t know. I can’t reach the zip.” I wriggle and wrestle in front of the mirror, and then yelp when he yanks the curtain across, my arms shifting to my front to hold the dress to me. “Whoa, mister.”
His gaze lingers on my chest for a few moments, his eyes flashing heat, before he physically shakes himself back to the here and now, coughing his throat clear. “Let me help.”
I laugh, nervous as shit. “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Turn. Around.”
I’m facing the mirror fast, my caution tossed to the wind, his stern tone turning me on. Turning me on so bloody much. And then his hands are on the dress, and I’m stiff as a board waiting for the inevitable dash of contact. And when it happens, my eyes fly to his in the reflection, and his hands still. There’s heat in his eyes again. No one’s bantering and laughing now. Fucking hell. Desire swirls through me too fast to stop, and I part my lips to get air into my lungs. I can read his intentions in his gaze, and I know he’s reading the acceptance in mine. God, am I really going to do this? In a changing room? In Harrods? With a man I don’t know? Does he do this often? Hunt women in department stores and have his wicked way with them?
Oh, the questions.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, his hands paused on the back of the dress.
“I think I’m about to have sex with a total stranger.” Let’s just start firing our arrows straight.
“I’m in the same boat,” he all but murmurs, still holding my dress. “Would it make you feel better to know my name?”
Would it? Or should I take this unexpected Christmas gift and just go with it? Live on the edge. Throw caution to the wind. You’re boring. Your life lacks excitement. You should be out there dating. Why the hell are my sister’s words swirling in my mind now? Live on the edge. “No, I don’t want to know your name,” I say, turning to face him. But he stops me with two firm hands on my shoulders.
I look at him, and he shakes his head. “Stay there.” He reaches for the hem of the dress an
d slowly drags it up my thighs to my waist, watching me closely the whole time. “Put your hands on the mirror.”
My palms slap the glass as he yanks his tie loose and starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch by perfect inch of his chest. A broad, manly chest, with neat dark hair dusting it. I swallow. It’s as I suspected. No fat. Nothing but ravines of muscles. “Condom,” I mutter mindlessly, locating a small piece of sensibility amid my chaotic thoughts.
He falters unfastening his fly, a look of devastation replacing the lust. “I don’t have one.”
I close my eyes and think real hard about what I’m going to say next. This is the perfect opportunity to call a halt on this. But when I have a solution to our problem, it would be silly not to offer it. It’s either that or walk out of this changing room feeling like a bomb ready to detonate, and I’ve already kissed goodbye to that option. “I have one,” I breathe, “in my purse.”
I don’t like the look of surprise on his face. I could explain that the strip of condoms has been there for months since my ex left me and my sister stuffed them inside and told me to get over him. But I won’t share that. I don’t need to. Let him think me a player. It’s better than him thinking me a mug.
He dips and pulls out my purse, handing it to me. “I don’t know whether I should be grateful or disappointed.”
I smile as I pull out the condoms and hold them up, holding my breath at the same time. His eyes take in the collection of six rubbers, and then he pouts. He’s even sexier when he pouts. “You plan on being busy?”
“It’s not what it seems.” I have to defend myself a little, even if I’m not willing to explain.
He plucks them from between my fingers and rips one off, dropping the rest to the floor. “I’ve heard that line before.”
His response and the way he said it makes me think about his life. Or, more specifically, his relationships. Was he cheated on too? I don’t know if my experience has made me super sensitive to fellow victims, like his line then, and the almost sarcastic edge to it. I think he has. No time for dating, he said. Busy at work. Like me. He pulls open the condom with his teeth. “Would you like the honor?”
“Honor? Listen to you, Billy Big Balls.”
“Oh, baby, you have no idea.” He lets his trousers drop, and I’m suddenly faced with black boxers . . . and a rather large bulge. “Ready?”
“Nope,” I choke, unable to find the will to be embarrassed by my honesty. I look up at him, wanting to ask him what the hell he thinks I might do with it, but I manage to save myself further embarrassment.
He shrugs and slips his hand past the waistband of his boxers. “I come from a long line of well-endowed men.”
“Lucky you.”
“And lucky you,” he whispers, passing me the condom, which I take with cautious hands. “Merry fucking Christmas.”
I can’t help but laugh at his boyish grin, as I pluck the foil packet from his hand and slip it out. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
He smiles as I drop to my knees and get up close and personal with his manhood, my tongue naturally tracing a wet line across my bottom lip as I stare at it. “Ready to bottle it?” he asks.
His doubt in my ability to live on the edge drives me forward, and I douse his cockiness with a bit of my own, letting my tongue slip free to meet the tip. He bends forward on a hiss, his palm slapping the mirror behind me. His breathing becomes instantly labored. “Gently does it,” he murmurs, taking his other hand to my hair and fisting it, as I open my mouth, close my eyes, and slide down his shaft. “Holy . . . shit.” I retreat, sucking my way back and relieving him of my mouth while I slide the condom on. His hands quickly take me under my armpits and haul me up, and he thrusts me against the mirror, pressing his body into mine. Breathing down on me, he rests a fingertip on my cheek and draws tiny circles. “I’m so glad I left my Christmas shopping until the last minute.”
“Me too.”
And with that, he slams his mouth against mine and virtually eats me alive, pushing me up the wall and grabbing my thigh, lifting it to his waist. A bend of his knees and a small roll of his hips has him in position, and he breaks our kiss to watch me as he slides oh so very slowly inside of me, stealing my breath. My fingers claw into his arms, my eyes rooted to his, unable to look away. His gradual, measured advance seems to last forever, and then he hits me at my deepest, unable to go any farther, and I cry out at the fullness.
His hand lands over my mouth. “Shh,” he whispers, holding still inside of me.
And then I hear a distant voice. “Is there someone in here?” a woman calls.
Oh fuck.
My eyes widen, and so do his.
“Hello?” she calls again, her voice getting closer. “The store is closing.”
He removes his hand from my mouth and withdraws, making me wince and him hiss. He quickly fixes himself first, leaving the buttons of his shirt undone and fastening his suit jacket to conceal his bare chest before pulling his trousers up. “My wife is just trying on a dress.” He gives me a wicked grin when I shake my head at him. “Won’t be long.” He spins me around and yanks my dress back down, so hard I stagger a little.
“Gentle,” I mutter.
His mouth is at my ear fast as he draws the zip up. “You wouldn’t be saying that if I was still buried Billy Big Balls deep inside you.”
“But you’re not.” I sound like a petulant child, my slighted state unmistakable. I had one stroke—an amazing stroke—and I want more.
With a pat of my bottom, he whips the curtain across and takes the zip of my dress. “We’re having a problem getting it off.” He wriggles it, as if to demonstrate. “Could do with some help.”
I wait for the sales assistant to take in the scene, to conclude what’s been going on in here, and when her eyes drop to the floor and she frowns, I find my stare following hers to whatever has her attention.
The collection of condoms. And the empty wrapper.
Oh my. I cringe as my partner in crime coughs, dipping and scooping them up. “Must have fallen out of my wallet.”
“Indeed.” The sales assistant’s arms fold across her chest. “And is the dress suitable?”
“Very,” he confirms. “We’ll take it.” Turning me around again, he unzips me. “Oh, and look at that. The zip’s working again.” He ushers the haughty looking sales assistant away before whipping the curtain across and helping me out of the dress, and I can do nothing more than let him. I suppose a husband and wife getting down and dirty in a public place is more acceptable than complete strangers.
Pulling the curtain back a little, he steps out and hands her the dress, flashing a dashing smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ll have it wrapped and bagged.” She gives me the eye past my accomplice as I pull my trousers back on, forcing me to look away, my cheeks heating.
I want to explain myself, tell her that I’d never usually be so wild and reckless. But instead I murmur a meek, “Thank you,” as she leaves. “Oh my God.” I put my head in my hands, so mortified. “I’m not facing that woman again,” I tell him straight.
“Me either.” He collects my blouse from the floor and helps me into it.
“But you told her we’d take it.”
“I was trying to appease her.” Scooping up our bags, he grabs my hand. “Ready to walk the walk of shame out of Harrods?”
“Can we run?”
He laughs and starts jogging, tugging me along behind him, and when we break out of the changing rooms, we run in the opposite direction of the cashier desk, both of us laughing like fools.
When we make it outside the store doors, I fall against the window and try to catch my breath, and he joins me. “I’m knackered for the wrong reason.” He rolls his head toward me, giving me a melt-worthy smile. “But it’s still the best shopping trip I’ve ever had.”
“Mine too,” I agree, holding his eyes as we both wait for our labored breathing to come down. Mr. Sexy as Fuck. Oh, how sexy you really are, especially sta
nding here all disheveled and sexed-up. “It was nice almost knowing you,” I say on a coy smile, taking my bags from his hands. “Do you make a habit of seducing innocent women in department stores?”
“Never,” he answers without hesitation, and, oddly, I believe him. Past his handsomeness and that dash of cockiness, there’s a nice, genuine guy. Maybe it’s my Wanker Sensor working, or it’s simple women’s intuition. Maybe losing his silly bet is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. “Do you make a habit of distracting men in department stores?” he asks.
“I generally avoid men,” I admit, ignoring his raging curiosity as I pull my phone from my bag. I have a mild panic attack when I see my ma’s calling me. “What’s up?” I say when I answer, hoping they’ve not broken down, or hit traffic, or worse, had an accident.
“Ringing with an ETA,” she sings. “We’ll be two hours.”
“What?” I throw my panicked eyes at Mr. Sexy as Fuck, though he couldn’t possibly know what I’m panicking about. They said eight o’clock. It’s not even five-thirty.
“The traffic is being good to us,” she says. “Right, Seamus?”
“Right,” Dad grunts from beside her in the car.
I start running, needing to get home ASAP. I’ve got to tidy up, make the guest beds, and prepare supper. “Fuck,” I curse as I pick up pace and pull out my purse, diving in a cab and throwing my instructions at the driver, at the same time waving my cash at him. Thankfully, sensing my urgency, he pulls away from the curb quickly. I look out the back window to see him standing in the road watching me, and as the distance between us grows, I’m torn, bouncing between stopping and giving him my number, or continuing on my way. But then it registers . . . he didn’t try to stop me leaving. I might have been fast about it—fast and panicked—but a shout would have snapped me back to the moment and reminded me of our deal. Hell, the man has feet—that probably match his truly well-honed body—so don’t tell me he can’t run. He could have caught up with me with ease and stopped me. He could have reminded me of our dinner deal. But he didn’t. Has he changed his mind given he didn’t succeed in having a good screw in the ladies’ changing room? I laugh—it sounds wicked—and turn around in my seat. “Silly, Shannon,” I say to myself. But my laugh fades quickly. Did that really happen? Did I really flirt with a stranger? Did I almost have sex in a ladies’ changing room in Harrods on Christmas Eve? My cheeks puff out, and I shake my head, trying to get my brain back to the present. Back to reality. “On with real life, Shannon. Living on the edge is not for you.”
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