Chapter 3

3

Parker

When me and Daws walk into the studio, everyone has gone home for the night and I’m grateful for the quiet. There is a geyser of ideas in my head and I’m eager to get them on paper. To test fabric against Daws’s skin tone and…and okay, maybe I just want him all to myself. I feel like I’ve gone out into the wilds of Manhattan and brought back a treasure. A big, beautiful treasure and I don’t want anyone else to steal him from me.

In comparison to his tank-like frame, the studio becomes a tiny dollhouse. I feel smaller, too. Like he could pick me up and toss me around like a beach ball. Why is that so appealing? Why do I keep looking at his thick, work-worn fingers and wondering what they would feel like tangled in my hair?

I’ve always kind of assumed my sex drive had never been installed. While I was on the reality show, my platonic, short-lived relationshipseemed to confirm that. But maybe I just hadn’t met my type. Maybe I just hadn’t met Daws.

Oh lord, if I’m not careful, he’s going to catch me mooning at him.

He’s older, wiser and confident. Kind, too, for helping me at a moment’s notice. The women he dates are probably daring and bold. They likely know themselves, whereas I’m still finding out who I am. They probably take shots of tequila and wipe their mouths afterwards with their sleeves. It’s best if I keep my relationship with Daws professional so I don’t get crushed. I know what it feels like to be rejected, but I think it would hurt a lot worse coming from this man.

“How do you want to get started?” Daws asks, those massive arms crossed over his equally massive chest.

“Um…” I set down my satchel on one of the work tables and remove my coat. “I think, since I’m designing this line for you, I want to find out which materials appeal to you most.” I unbelt my coat and toss it over my satchel. Then I drop down on my knees and bend over, searching for the sample books in the cabinet underneath. It’s not until my hand closes around the book that I realize I’m probably flashing my ass at the man, thanks to the abbreviated length of my leather skirt. Normally this work space is full of naked models, so I wouldn’t think twice about someone seeing my panties, but I hear Daws’s intake of breath and the groan that follows, and God help me, I tilt my hips even more. Look. “Almost got it…”

“Take your time.”

My lips twitch. Fine, there’s nothing exciting about my paisley yellow, cotton thong, but his guttural rasp makes me feel like I’m wearing nothing. When I’ve stretched the moment long enough, I get to my feet again and attempt to keep my breathing even. He’s moved closer, close enough that I could reach out and touch him, his chest rising and falling faster than before.

“Where do you want me?” he rumbles.

In my apartment. Covered in whipped cream.

“Uh, the couch,” I blurt, wondering who I’ve become. “Let’s get comfortable. I might have to sketch for a while once we know the direction we’re taking.”

He nods, takes off his jacket and lays it down beside mine.

We take seats beside each other on the couch and I open the fabric sample book, removing a few squares and setting it aside. “Okay, so…” I walk toward Daws on my knees and kneel beside him on the couch. He watches me approach like I’m carrying a grenade, but remains still as I settle in, my knees a quarter inch from his gigantic thigh. “I bet you grumble like a bear when you have to get dressed up, right? Maybe for a wedding or a…date?”

“Don’t go on many dates,” he grunts.

“You don’t? Why?”

My surprise has him raising a brow. “You’ve got eyes, Nebraska.”

I blink them. “I don’t understand.”

“Come on now. We both know I’m a mean-looking son of a bitch. It tends to intimidate people. And I’m not as nice to everyone as I am…”

“To me?”

Another grunt.

A legion of butterflies take flight in my chest.

“What about you?” His blue eyes take on a dangerous glint, those thick fingers flexing where he rests them on his thighs. “I’m assuming you don’t date.”

“Why?”

“Dating implies you’ve gone out multiple times. But who would let you go? One date and you’d be engaged, unless the man was a goddamn idiot.”

He practically shouts the last part at me. Is he upset? Maybe he doesn’t like talking about his love life? Or maybe he just wants to keep our relationship professional, too. In which case, I definitely shouldn’t be prying into his personal affairs. Still…I haven’t really talked to anyone about what happened on the reality show. Every time I bring it up to Jocelyn, she rolls her eyes and tells me to toughen up. “That’s nice of you to say,” I murmur. “I don’t date. I thought I would want to eventually, but I have a hard time figuring out someone’s intentions.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there was one guy. A contestant on the reality show.” I swallow my embarrassment. “He pretended to be interested in me, but only so I’d share my design plans. It was obvious I was a frontrunner and he…used me for information. We never kissed or anything, but he bought me flowers and…ugh. Isn’t that humiliating?”

“For him it is. Not you.” The sincerity in his tone has me glancing up and I know he really means what he said. He’s even mad on my behalf, that upper lip halfway to a snarl.

I’m so mesmerized by this unique man that I speak without thinking. “Isn’t it funny that I have such a hard time trusting men now, but I trusted you right away?”

His chest shudders. “You can trust me, Nebraska. I’ll never let you down.”

Oh lord, I want to kiss him so bad. Would he welcome it?

His lap is the Promised Land. I want to be cradled in it and have this man’s big arms wrap around me like a barrier from the rest of the world.

Professional.

You’re keeping it professional.

Not to mention, the clock is ticking and I have a miracle to pull off.

Shaking myself, I start sorting through the fabric squares in my lap. “As I was saying, I bet you hate dressing up.”

“You’ve got me.”

“What is your biggest complaint?”

He rubs at his throat, as if imagining a tie wrapped around it. “Suits are uncomfortable.”

“Where? In the arms?”

“Yeah. Never found one that didn’t feel like a straightjacket.”

I giggle and his gaze zips to my mouth. “I’m thinking of a way to be fashion-forward and unique, while striving for comfort. Wool is out. Not breathable enough. And a silk blend isn’t masculine enough for you.” I finger the square of jersey knit. “We’ll go with this and splash it up. Some interesting stitching along the lapel, but nothing flowery. Maybe a…gun barrel.”

I realize that as I’ve been speaking, I’ve unconsciously moved closer to Daws and now my knees are pressed to the side of his thigh. “You’re really good at this,” he says, a line rippling in his cheek, his eyes resolutely forward. Those big hands rake up and down his thighs as if drying his palms and the air around us is close. Expectant.

But maybe I’m just imagining it?

“May I?” I ask, holding the square of jersey material up.

“Anything you want, Parker.”

Those four words, the gruff way he says my name, produce a slow tug between my legs. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples swollen. Needy. And all my reminders to stay professional can’t stop me from rubbing the square against his strong jaw, down his neck and into that forest of chest hair. “Do you like the way that feels?”

His eyes are closed. “Yes.”

Am I mistaken or did his hand edge toward my knee and stop?

“Are you sure?” Apparently I’ve turned into a shameless hussy. “M-maybe we should unbutton your shirt a little further and make sure the jersey doesn’t irritate your stomach?”

His eyes remain closed, but he shakes his head. “You don’t want to see that.”

“I’m going to have to see it eventually.”

The blue of his eyes is suddenly piercing mine.

I stutter through an explanation. “I’m basically going to be sewing you into this suit, Daws. You’ll have to be pretty close to naked and…oh God, I should have told you that upfront.” I chew on my lip. “You’re not going to back out, are you?”

“No, I just misunderstood.” He mutters something about wishful thinking under his breath. Then his blunt fingers move to the buttons of his shirt and start twisting them open, one by one. Reassured he isn’t going to desert me, I watch in breathless anticipation as he reveals the thick hill of his stomach, the whorl of hair around his belly button. There is extra weight there and I’ve never, ever wanted to rub my face in anything so badly. The downward trajectory of my gaze continues and—

He’s erect.

Not just erect, though.

He’s bulging against his fly, stretching the limits of the denim.

My own body reacts, turning me slick and hot, my skin flaming.

It’s easy to see that his sex is abundant as the rest of him. How long has he been like this?

“Wow,” I breathe. “I guess you really like the material.”