28. REEMA

His eyes instantly glaze over as if he's suffering from a spontaneous concussion.

No problem. My shrieking question does the work of pulling him out of it. "What are you doing here?!"

Pupils darken as he looks over the length of me, and then he turns his head to the wall so fast a muscle must have pulled. "She—your sister—told me you wanted to see me in here!"

I'll kill her. I'll kill her and hide the body.

As if summoned for her murder, her voice rings from outside the fitting room.

"What do you think, Jake? Reema said you would like that one."

Coleman stumbles towards the exit, but I grab his elbow at the last second, forgetting what I'm wearing, or, more accurately, what I'm not wearing. He can't flee out of here as if he's about to throw-up! Not if I want a chance of convincing my family we are together.

Of course, he pulls away as if my body is acid, trying to avoid any point of contact other than where my fingers grip his biceps. It's brutally tense underneath my hand.

"He thinks the bow is cute," I say, shocked my voice is coming out remotely even. Coleman has basically seen me naked. He's seen my arms, legs, and most of my tits, considering how nipples poke out from the edge of this bodice.

"Stop feeding him answers," chides my sister.

"Is asking all this kind of inappropriate?" Pooja speaks out, a spot of unlikely reason.

"Maybe not," my sister reluctantly admits. "Okay. Yeah. We're browsing on the other side of the store and will distract the owner. You two have your moment in there."

We hear footsteps fade as they drift off.

I let go of Coleman.

He steps away again, but I warn him, "You can't leave. You have to stay. For a moment." And then I take a breath and mutter, "And you might as well see me in this."

My name is a curse on his lips. I bite back my annoyance—and the hurt. I know. Such a hardship it must be to look at your work enemy in this state, but he's practically seen it already.

Noticing how my hands have covered my top and some of the space between my legs since the hem seems to keep rising, I force myself to relax my arms at my side. It might not be the fittest body I've had, but I'm not going to quiver in the corner as if I'm undesirable.

Looking at Coleman, I see he's more interested in staring at the mannequin.

"She's going to quiz you on how I look," I say, "and technically, you should know the shape of my body since we're supposed to be sleeping with each other. I have certain birthmark freckles on my thighs." Plus, the damage is done, so what is a little more? If I pretend this doesn't bother me, it won't. "Since you struggle so much with lying, you can finally speak from a source of truth."

"Christ," he bites off, his voice barely audible. "Don't do this to me."

That's not the reaction you want when offering a man a freebie peek. "No.You're right. What am I thinking? Obviously, I am not going to make you do something you are so opposed to doing."

"You… want me to look?"

"I meant once?—"

I'm about to tell him he's off the hook, and that, of course, I'm sure this violates many work HR policies. And that I'm sorry for sexually harassing him by demanding he do this in the first place, but then I lose my chance because Coleman does it. He turns around.

That's when I see the front of his pants. They are absolutely distended. Now, my ex had a nice, average-sized penis, and since I prefer written erotica to porn, I've not seen a real erection in a long time. Have they always been so damn big?

He moves to cover himself. "Can you not?"

The man has some nerve! "Isn't that a bit hypocritical, considering I'm letting you stare at me?"

"I've got permission."

So he says, but he hasn't exactly looked yet. His eyes are now fixed on the space above my head, as if direct eye contact is going to burn his retinas.

"That's quite a weapon you've got," I observe, fighting so hard to be casual about all this. "Why has it come out? Don't tell me you're turned on by me?"

"You aren't the only woman in here."

I'm confused for a second until I notice the busty mannequin behind him. "Omigod. I always knew you were a freak! Let me guess. You like when they don't have a lot of opinions."

He's still not looking, but the side of his mouth twitches. "I prefer the opposite. Gives me an opportunity to teach them how to put their mouth to better use."

Eeek.My mouth aches in response. As does the space between my legs. "Like playing teacher, do you? Considering women you date are too young to know better, that also makes sense."

He scowls. Bingo, we have direct eye-contact. "If you actually stalked me like I keep thinking you do, you would know I'm attracted to grown women. Responsible adults."

Well, that takes me out of the running.

In my true current state, Coleman would never want me. If he only knew the extent of how little I have my life together, he wouldn't be having dick issues. It wouldn't get hard in the first place.

That thought kills my mood.

"Go on then," I say, waving a hand down my body. "Look."

He blinks slowly. Then slowly his eyes go away from the wall and move to me. Goosebumps immediately pebble my skin. I have to tamp down a shiver. The way his gaze is slowly roving–

There's such an intensity to it that I swear the force of his stare is a caress. I gulp when he tips his head down and stares at my breasts. When I heave and it lifts them up, something darkens in his eyes.

Glancing down, I swear the bulge is even bigger. Even his large hand can't contain it.

And never mind, my mood is a boomerang. Warmth stirs in my lower belly, languishing lower and lower. I'm no longer casual about this.

As for Coleman, he drives a hand through his hair when the garters catch his attention. My legs shift under his inspection, and his chiseled jaw tightens. More heat creeps along the line of my back when he goes back and starts again, looking at me from top-to-bottom, slowly, as if he can't help himself. As if he's not even close to having seen enough.

I bite my lip. "You look a bit sweaty. Like you actually have stomach issues."

Coleman glares at me.

"Hurry up and collect your data," I demand.

The tone of my voice makes his deep green eyes flash dangerously. "Why do you wear sweaters?" Except he doesn't ask this with polite curiosity, but with biting frustration.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not supposed to know you look like this," he says in a tone that makes it even clearer that he's pissed. He flicks a finger at my bulky sweater. It's hanging on a hook beside him. "I won't be able to look at these properly again. I'll always wonder what they're hiding."

"No, you won't. This is a temporary memory," I say, my voice pitching higher. "Burn whatever folder you must store it in for now, after this week is over."

"Easy for you to say."

"Yes, forgetting everything about you is easy for me."

"Such a little liar you are," he seethes.

"Not this topic again." I groan, trying to keep my voice down. It doesn't sound like anyone is outside the fitting room, and the shop's overhead music should drown out our voices, but we're still being too loud. "Listen. We've been in here long enough. And we've acted like a proper couple, don't you think? You've done your duty and reacted as a boyfriend would if he saw his partner dressed like this." Leave now.

He crosses his arms. "I wouldn't?—"

"Wouldn't what?"

His jaw hardens. "Never mind."

"Don't be shy. Spit it out."

"I wouldn't not touch you."

I blink.

He clears his throat. "If it was real, you wouldn't be in that outfit—without—without me breaking and touching you."

I'm not sure, but I think I hear a very low, whispered Fuck after that admission.

Actually, Coleman has gone back to looking at the wall, but his hands are scrubbing at his face. When he notices me watching him, his arms drop to his sides, but his hands are still agitated. They clench and unclench. "I'm leaving."

"No.That was—good thinking," I say, my throat dry enough to make the words come out raspy. "You should make it look like we got handsy."

A muscle in his face jerks.

Seeing how he isn't moving, I step towards him.

With that, his gaze grows predatory. Whatever he is thinking makes my pussy clench. When he moves closer, I freeze. Dammit. If he touches me, I can't pretend it doesn't matter. I might moan. The word, "Don't," is pulled out of me as his arm lifts.

He wrenches it back. "Fuck. Right. Sorry."

"Do my hair. Muss it up a bit. That should be enough."

I hold my breath as his hand ghosts over the side of my head before finally touching me.

"So soft," he whispers, as if the knowledge isn't worth knowing. As if he wished he had no idea.

A few pins near my forehead are carefully plucked out. He doesn't have to do much. My hair immediately springs out with excitement. He runs his fingers through it.

It's not supposed to matter, but the small gesture is an anvil. It disturbs what is supposed to be safe and familiar antagonism between us. My heart isn't pumping properly. It's too fast but also feels as if key beats are being skipped.

Any longer, and I'll be in trouble.

This is.. We should…

"Excuse me!" yells the shop-owner. "We can't have couples in the fitting room together!"

We've been caught.

"Better get out of here," I cry out, absurdly relieved.

He drops his hand and is about to leave, but a glance down makes him curse. His cock is thick and outlined.

"Do you need this?" he asks, pointing to my sweater.

"I guess not. I have the shirt I wore underneath it."

He grabs my sweater and holds it in front of his pants. Then he ducks out.

Outside, I hear the shop owner lecturing him. As fast as I can, I get myself out of the lingerie and pull on my baggy shirt and leggings again.

As soon as I'm dressed and step out, the owner pushes past me to inspect the fitting room, as if scouring for body fluids. Coleman has left, and looking around, so has the rest of the group. The store is empty. Guess we've been kicked out.

Rushing out the doors, I find them waiting for me on the sidewalk. They're laughing. More accurately, he is making everyone laugh. At the sight before me, I find myself confused but smiling?

It takes me a few moments to catch myself. Because what am I doing?

Why should I care that he can make my sister and her friends laugh? I mean, yes, that's a part of his job as my fake-boyfriend, but the amount of joy I feel at the sight is fucking disproportionate.

Seeing my mussed up hair, Jyoti whistles and my sister grins. She's so happy.

Coleman holds up my sweater when I go to them. I let him put it on me, ignoring the fawning reactions of the others. So chivalrous. Sweet. Fake.

This isn't him, I remind myself. Not really. He doesn't like me. We aren't together.

He notices my empty hands.

"You didn't buy it?"

He's talking about the lingerie.

"No.Purple isn't my color."