3 APRIL

That’s when I make my second mistake: ogling.

I can’t help it. All my Good Girl? resolutions crumble into a pathetic heap once my gaze falls over the stranger’s eight-pack. And I do mean eight-pack. Two, four, six, eight. Taut skin over bulging pecs, a sculpted V-cut barely concealed by his unbuttoned pants, and a washboard I could see myself switching careers for.

I must be sweating away every drop of self-respect, because suddenly, I’m wondering if this guy’s in the market for a laundry maid. Uniform up for negotiation.

Get it together, girl. Get it?—

“Should I get you a picture?”

I snap back to reality. God, can this day get any more embarrassing? “I am so sorry, sir.” Covering my face with both hands, I make a belated attempt at respecting my customer’s privacy.

Which would probably go over better if I hadn’t just gotten a full frontal of his happy trail.

“That was inexcusable. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were thinking of something, alright.”

I grit my teeth. “I promise I wasn’t.” Grovel, April. Just grovel. “I just… I saw this tie outside and I…”

Suddenly, the tie slips from my grasp. I panic, thinking I must’ve let it fall. So I open my eyes again?—

“Pretty little thing.”

And he’s right in front of me.

I swallow. I know he’s talking about the tie, but the way his ice-blue eyes trail over my frame makes it difficult to remember that. “Smooth,” he adds, thumb drawing circles into the fabric, his gaze still fixed on me. “Silk?”

Close. When did he get so close? “Uhh—yes. Mulberry.”

“Finest there is.”

I nod frantically. Maybe I can still salvage this. “The hue is very similar to the embroidery on the jacket. It would also, uhh…” Bring out your criminally blue eyes. “Compliment your skin color.”

The man hums. I start to sigh with relief: shop talk has never failed to save my ass…

“And yours, I’d say.”

… until now.

His hand circles my wrist. Trapped in that wide palm, my arm looks like a chopstick. It occurs to me that he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. It occurs to me a moment later that some part of me very much likes that concept.

He lifts my wrist up and holds the tie against it. “Mhmm. Perfection.”

I feel my face go very, very red. “Oh, well, you should really… try it on yourself,” I stammer, trying to draw back. “Skin tones can be… deceptive. I’ll leave you to it?—”

“Not a chance, Ms. Flowers.”

He grabs my other arm, lightning-quick. How in the hell is he so fast? That’s not the kind of speed that goes with that amount of muscle. Sure, he isn’t steroid-ripped, but still…

Before I can shake myself out of my reverie, the stranger’s got both my wrists bound.

That’s what snaps me back to reality. Customers with a poor sense of personal space? I’ve had those. Customers who speak like a phone sex hotline? Rare, but also not unheard of. In my line of work, there’s no such thing as too weird. Whatever the client wants, you go along with it, and you do it with a smile.

But no client’s ever tied me up before.

“What are you doing?” I squeak, doing my best not to let my voice crack. I test my bindings: the tie’s not looped too tight. I could break out of it, if I wanted to.

“I should be the one asking that,” the man rumbles, pressing me up against the changing room wall. I take a step back, but that’s all I’m allowed. Soon, there is nowhere left to go. “What are you doing?”

I’m suddenly very aware of how charged the air feels. How in the hell did I miss it until now? Am I so used to indulging my customers’ every whim that I couldn’t tell I was being cornered in my own place of work while someone cranked the sexual tension to an eleven out of ten and broke off the knob?

Apparently, yes.

“I’m… helping you?” I venture.

“Wrong.” The man’s breath is on my cheek now, his cologne overpowering in the small space. He smells like pine and ozone—the darkening sky before a thunderstorm. “You’re denying yourself.”

“Pardon me?”

“You’ve wanted me ever since I stepped foot in here,” he states, matter-of-factly. “That’s why you ‘accidentally’ walked in on me, right?”

“Listen up, James Bondage,” I snap, feeling my hackles raising. So much for being polite no matter what. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but?—”

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m insinuating.” He sinks his face into my neck and breathes, long and deep. “Are you really trying to tell me you weren’t looking earlier, Ms. Flowers? Gawking?”

I squirm, but it’s not out of fear. More like shame: what must I smell like after such a long, hard day of work? My own perfume’s bound to have evaporated by now. No dollar store mix lasts that long.

But that’s not even in the top fifty of things I should be worrying about. What with the huge, half-naked stranger looming over me and all. “I was just… surprised,” I croak out.

“You saw something you liked. You took it.”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“Not yet,” the stranger concedes. “But things are made to be touched. Aren’t they? Isn’t that what you said?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“You want me.” He runs his free hand down my neck. Touching me. As if I’m made to be… “And that’s a good thing. Because, you see, Ms. Flowers…”

His blue eyes meet mine.

“I want you, too.”

The revelation shouldn’t shock me, but it does. Because, out of all the boyfriends I’ve ever had; all the strangers I gave a chance to in the dark, long before I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble?—

No one has ever said those words to me.

And then, as if wanting to prove it, the stranger closes the last of the space between us.

I gasp. There’s no mistaking the hardness pressing against my thigh, just like there’s no mistaking how badly it’s affecting me. Through my thin satin blouse and lace bra, my nipples are visibly standing to attention.

I pray he hasn’t noticed the state of me, but it’s a short-lived hope. I can see him looking, licking his lips like a wolf cornering its prey.

“That’s right,” he rumbles, low and dark. “It appears you’ve managed to bring me something to my liking after all. And I never leave something I like on display.”

“I’m not for sale,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And I’m not offering to pay.” He brings his face even closer to mine. One miscalculation, one little twitch, and our lips would meet. “Are you going to leave what you want on display?”

He waits.

He waits.

I don’t say no.

So he takes that for exactly the answer it is: Claim me.

I kiss him.

That’s my third and final mistake. I surge forward and claim his lips with mine, dragging him the rest of the way down. I use my teeth; I’m not afraid. I want this. And wasn’t he the one going on and on about taking the things you want?

For once, I’m apparently right.

It’s a kiss unlike any I’ve ever had before. It’s not particularly nice, to be honest, or kind, or tender, or gentle.

Actually, it’s fucking savage.

He pries my lips apart and licks into my mouth, hot and hard and deep. If there was any doubt left on whether this man was truly made of ice, this kiss melts it all the way away.

Under the surface, fire smolders.

His hands are on me in seconds. I can feel his rough palms mapping out my body, the curves and dips of my breasts, of my hips. My buttons don’t stand a chance: they go flying everywhere.

“You’re lucky,” I blurt between kisses, “that I have a spare set of clothes.”

In response, the man chuckles in that dark way of his.

Then he yanks my head back and turns my neck into a battleground.

My hands itch to touch back. To give just as good as I’m getting. But, as if reading my mind, the man yanks on the tie, securing the knot all the way.

“Not so fast, kalina.” He loops the tie’s tail to the free coat hook above my head, pulling twice to ensure it won’t come loose. “I’m not done with my purchase yet.”

God help me, I moan.

I’m so used to being the one in control—the one who has to be in control. If I’m not on top of every little thing, I feel like my life will just spiral out of my grasp.

Like it used to be.

So, this? Being stripped of all say? I’m not gonna lie: it’s doing it for me.

I feel my thighs being pried apart. I don’t resist: I could never. I’m so wet I can’t breathe.

He notices it, too. “Blyat’,” he growls, pushing my skirt up and my panties aside. I have no idea what that word means, but right now, I can’t say I care. All I care about is his fingers, rough and wonderful, pushing up just right?—

“Oh, God.”

He starts with one. It’s not enough. “More,” I whine, squirming against the restraints, trying to hook my leg around his half-naked hip, because if I don’t get more skin-on-skin contact rightthisfuckingsecond, I think I might die.

In the crook of my neck, the stranger groans. “Fucking hell, kalina. You want me that bad?”

“Yes,” I breathe. I’m too far gone for lies. It’s so hot to say it—to admit it out loud. No one’s ever asked me what I wanted before. I don’t know if that makes me pathetic or unlucky, but either way, I couldn’t care less.

Right now, I make my own luck.

Another curse, this time just shy of my ear. “Damn.” Two fingers are pumping in and out of me now. It’s still nowhere near enough. “Like me that much, huh?”

“Fuck no,” I moan. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re the worst customer I’ve ever had.”

That makes him laugh. “Well, then, I’d better fix that.”

The second I hear his fly being unzipped, my eyes dart downwards. For one moment, I wonder if I’m seeing things. Because there’s no way, right?

There’s no way anyone can be this big.

“Having second thoughts?” he taunts.

I glare at him and jut out my chin proudly. “Never.”

With a single drive of my hips, I wrap my legs fully around him. I revel in the shocked look on his face—but it’s his own damn fault. If he didn’t want me to move, he should’ve bound my ankles, too.

“How about you?” I breathe, pulling him closer. “‘Cause, if you’re too chicken, door’s right there.”

His face splits into a rare grin. “You asked for this, Ms. Flowers. Don’t go sending me a complaint in the morning.”

“That depends entirely on you.”

I can see the spark of a challenge in his eyes. The second he takes it, I know. “So be it.”

True to his word, he doesn’t give me another minute. Before I can take a single breath, he’s spreading my thighs wide, holding me up by the back of my knees. I cling to his waist with my lower body, suddenly terrified I might fall.

But he doesn’t let me fall.

He doesn’t let me do anything at all.

He grabs, and he pushes, and in one smooth thrust, he’s inside me.

I can feel him. I can feel every inch of him, driving into me with torturous slowness. He can’t afford anything less: one wrong move, and he might literally split me in half.

The thought turns me on in all the wrong ways.

“Harder,” I beg, canting my hips against his.

“Blyat’,” he groans again, that word that might mean Fuck you or Fuck me. Maybe just the first half of both. “So fucking tight.”

He starts thrusting inside me. Pulling out all the way before grinding back in, setting all my nerve endings on fire. His spare hand is playing with my clit, sending sparks skittering down my back with every touch.

I can’t find the voice to moan—it all feels too goddamn good. The stretch, the burn, everything. “Harder.”

“Careful, kalina.”

“I said fuck me harder!” I cry out, inhibitions forgotten.

With a savage drive of his hips, the stranger pins me to the wall—and stays there. Goddamn him. I cry out: I don’t know what secret button inside of me he hit, but I need him to do it again. Immediately. Repeatedly.

But he stays, ground to a complete halt.

“You don’t make the rules here, little flower,” the man growls. “I do. So from now on, if you want something, you’ll learn to ask nicely.”

I could sob right now. What kind of monster could give someone all that pleasure, only to take it away?

“Please.”

“I said nicely.”

I arch off the wall. “Please, sir,” I babble incoherently, glistening with effort, my breasts falling out what little’s left of my blouse. “Please, please, fuck me, please?—”

He kisses me silent.

And then, finally, finally, he gives me what I need.

There is no restraint this time. No lingering concerns. There is only want, and heat, and waves of pleasure rolling over me. Threatening to pull me under.

I hope to God they do.

Because I can feel my orgasm building inside me. Higher, higher, tighter, tighter. “Please,” I moan, no longer knowing what I’m asking for. Only that I need it more than I’ve ever needed anything in my whole damn life. “Please, sir?—”

A bite on my breast. My skin tingles with pain, then pleasure. I can feel him sucking, ready to devour me.

I wish he would.

“What do you want, kalina?” he asks then, nearly sweet.

“I want you,” I keen, desperation in my voice. “I want to come, want you to make me, want you to come inside me?—”

“You want me to breed you?” he groans, lips back on my throat.

Fuck no, the rational part of me says. That sounds like a nightmare.

Unfortunately, it’s not the part that’s calling the shots right now.

“Yes!” I cry out. Even though I know it’s just dirty talk, it feels insanely hot to think it. That this stranger might mark me in such a permanent way; own me. “Yes, fuck, breed me, make me yours?—!”

I come so hard I nearly black out.

My body shudders, suspended in the air, held up by nothing but the blue tie and him. And then I feel him shudder, too, fucking into me harder, harder, until?—

I come again. I don’t know how that’s possible; I still haven’t stopped coming from before. But as soon as I feel him spill inside me, that spark flares anew, making me arch all the way off the wall.

I nearly rip the tie off the hanger in the process. In any other context, it would be unforgivable.

Right now, I don’t care.

But that’s part of what sobers me up in the end. I’m still catching my breath against this man—this man I don’t even know the name of—when, terrifyingly, something else happens.

The door chimes.

“Oh, fuck,” I curse, scrambling to get my feet back on solid ground.

“Let them leave,” the man murmurs into the crook of my neck.

“Hello?” calls the voice I instantly recognize as Mr. Boyd’s. “April, are you there?”

“Please untie me,” I squeak as quietly as I can.

“Why? I’m not done with you yet.”

“I’m definitely done with you,” I hiss, trying to magic my way out of my bonds like a sartorial Houdini.

“Yeah, see, I don’t buy that.”

The tie tears.

Fuck.

I cling to the only thing I can: the man who’s currently still inside me. “I can order a new one of those,” I squeak, slipping back into customer service mode.

“You’d better. I quite liked it.”

Then, out of the blue, I feel his fingers pulling something out of my hair.

My ponytail comes loose, curls all over the place.

Great.

“In the meantime, I think I’ll take this,” he says, dangling my hair ribbon in front of me. Cornflower blue, just like the ruined tie. “As insurance.”

“April? Elias? Anyone?”

I start squirming and thrashing and whimpering and finally, the man takes the hint, letting me down with a grimace. “Fine. Be that way if you choose.”

“I absolutely will be that way,” I growl back, rushing to put myself back together. My blouse is unsalvageable, but maybe?—

“I thought that was my shirt,” the man frowns, watching me steal the dark gray shirt I gave him to try on earlier.

“It will be. In ten to fifteen business days,” I tell him curtly, rolling up the sleeves. “If you decide to purchase.”

“Well, now, I’m not so sure.”

I give him my worst glare. But I can’t waste time trading evil looks with this arrogant, beautiful asshole, because Mr. Boyd is still thumping around in the shop impatiently.

I compose myself as best as I can, watching him do the same in the mirror. There’s a ripple of muscle across his chest, his arms, as he briskly slips on the clothes he came in with.

I force myself to tear my gaze away.

Then, without turning back, I start to head out.

Somehow, he beats me to the door. “Here.” He hands me a business card. “Contact info’s on the back. Address, too, for delivery.”

Frowning, I read over the card.

Matvey Groza, CEO.

“See you at the final fitting,” Mr. Groza drawls, pocketing my hair ribbon. Then, unexpectedly, he picks up my hand and kisses it. “… Ms. Flowers.”

And then, as if nothing happened, he walks.

I hear Mr. Boyd outside going “Oh!”, probably expecting Elias and then noticing at the last second the man in front of him is much paler and much taller and much, much scarier.

The door chimes.

And just like that, he’s gone.

With one last look in the mirror, I head out, calling out a thank you to Mr. Boyd for his patience.

Matvey Groza. Whoever he is, I can tell he’s trouble. It’s better this way, really: I’ve got no desire to ever see him again.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

And then, one month later, the universe holds up both middle fingers to me…

In the form of two pink lines on a pregnancy test.