“Hmm.” She pretended to think about it. “Pretty much. My mind is firmly entrenched in the gutter and I’m quite happy to leave it there.”
I said nothing.
She looked at me. “Don’t even try to tell me your mind’s not in the gutter.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re a man,” she pointed out.
“Now that’s sexist.”
“Yet true.”
I cleared my throat. “Not all men think with their…”
“Dicks?” she supplied.
I said nothing.
“Did you seriously stop talking before you said the word dicks?”
“Do I need to answer that?” Unfortunately, I had a feeling she wasn’t gonna let this conversation drop. I wasn’t sure how to get out of it, because silence didn’t work with this woman.
It just egged her on.
“I don’t understand what just happened,” she said. “Did you just censor the word dick?”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“Why? You think I haven’t heard the word dick before? Dick, dick, dick.” She shook her head as she drove. “I’m disappointed in you, Ronan. Maybe you really haven’t put much research into my social circle after all…”
“You’re my client,” I reminded her.
“So you can’t say dick in front of me?”
“I was being respectful.”
She looked at me a few times as she drove, while I tried not to look at her. “Where do you come from? I don’t know men like you.”
“I guess you do now.”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe you could turn up the music,” I suggested.
She laughed and turned it up.
Not even a full song later, we reached our destination. It was an industrial building just off Venables Street in Strathcona, where there were a lot of artists’ studios. I happened to know that Xander Rush rented a studio in this neighborhood where he kept his drums.
Summer found us a parking spot on the street out front and made a call.
“We’re here!” she sang into the phone. “Okay, love.”
By the time we reached the door, a man opened it from inside, letting us into the building.
I recognized him from his photos. The neon-orange hair was hard to forget. Especially when it was on an incredibly fit black man who wore skintight clothing, including midriff baring shirts. He’d been wearing one in almost every photo I found when I looked him up online, and he was wearing one now—lime-green mesh—that barely covered his pierced nipples.
Actually, it didn’t really cover them at all.
His professional name was “Devoid.” He was a local fashion designer who custom-made some of Summer’s stage clothes. She’d told me she had a lot to replace since some of hers had been stolen, but I’d seen the walk-in closet in her bedroom, the extra wardrobe cases in her basement. From where I was looking, the woman had enough clothes to outfit the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders in hot club wear for the next decade or so. But hey, I was a dude.
And apparently, a lot less versed in fashion than some other dudes.
I scoped out Devoid as he and Summer greeted one another with hugs, kisses and what I could only describe as squeals. Then I turned my attention to the wide hallway beyond and the staircase leading up. The building was locked, and there was a security cam on the entrance.
“Who’s the secret agent?” I heard him ask, the exaggerated whisper obviously meant to reach my ears.
“Oh, that’s Ronan. Isn’t he lovely?”
I looked over to find them both checking me out.
“This is Devon,” Summer told me, though I already knew that. “You can call him Devoid.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand as his gaze dragged up and down my body. I was tempted to ask him, point-blank, what exactly he was “devoid” of. Though maybe the answer was self-evident.
Subtlety? Half his shirt?
“Summer, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend. Are we dressing him up, too?”
“Oh!” Summer’s eyes went wide.
“No, thanks,” I said, before she got any ideas.
Too late.
“Can we??” she pleaded with me.
“Really, I’m good.”
She pouted, which I’d never seen her do before. Her lips made a plump kiss shape and I looked away. “He’s my new bodyguard,” she informed Devon/Devoid. “Wouldn’t it be everything if he escorted me to tonight’s gig in a Devoid original?”
“Everything,” he concurred.
“We could match,” she said, and they both gazed at me hopefully.
“Thanks, really,” I said. “I’m good. I’ve got clothes.”
Devoid inspected my leather motorcycle jacket, T-shirt and jeans, all black. “It would be everything,” he reiterated.
“Ugh, forget it. He’s really not as fun as he looks.” Summer hooked her arm through Devoid’s. “Take us up. Show us what you’ve been working on.”
Devoid took us upstairs. He led us down a long hallway, past other studios and into his enormous corner studio. It was a single room crammed with rolls of fabric in every imaginable hue, huge sewing tables, several desks and racks of hanging clothes.
Music was playing. There were a few women working, two at the sewing machines and another at a desk. She smiled at us and said hello to Summer, who gave her a hug.
While Devoid led Summer to the back of the studio, I took a look around—noting the two exits, the washroom, the absence of security cameras.
“You can settle your ass down, right there,” Devoid informed me, once I’d caught up with them. The back of the studio had been cleared out, painted white and furnished with sleek furniture the same neon-orange color as his hair. There was a huge three-paneled mirror facing an elevated pedestal in the middle, for trying clothes on. He’d indicated a couch facing the pedestal, so I sat down.
Devoid started pulling outfits from a rolling rack and presenting them to Summer, one-by-one. She ohhed and ahhed.
And as I watched, she started untying the knot on the side of her wrap dress. The dress swathed her curves perfectly, and I got lost in staring, maybe… because the next thing I knew, she’d spread the whole thing open and dropped it on the floor.
She was standing right in front of me—and Devoid—in her underwear, her black dress in a puddle at her feet.
Her bra and panties were see-through.
I looked away.
What the shit.
I’d fully expected her to walk into the curtained-off change area in the corner before stripping down.
I tried to look anywhere else, but it was like my eyes had been magnetized to her bare skin. The pull was too strong.
I glanced over. Summer and Devoid were still chatting, like nothing had changed. Like Summer’s sex goddess body wasn’t all out for everyone to see. In see-through nude-colored lace.
I fucking stared.
I could see her nipples. I could see a whole lot of pretty much everything.
Neither of them paid me any notice as Devoid slipped a white dress from a hanger. They were touching the fabric and talking about the hemline or something, both of them acting like Summer wasn’t the least bit almost-naked, as I quietly overheated.
My dick fucking hardened.
Correction. It was already hard.
Summer turned away, and my eyes instantly dropped to her ass. Her panties were tiny in the back, barely covering her round, yoga-toned ass cheeks… and definitely see-through.
I looked away again.
What. The fuck.
What the hell was I supposed to do?
I was frozen, my dick thudding with hunger. Maybe my heart was dead, but my body was painfully alive.
I didn’t want to draw attention by suddenly getting up and leaving, so I just sat. And tried to make a show of looking elsewhere.
I half-listened to them talking about fabric and color and whatever as I stared at the
illuminated sign over the fire exit. All the while, an electric charge thrummed through my body. An awareness of her nearness, amped up a thousandfold just knowing she was so… fucking naked. The white paint on the walls was deliberately worn, the ceiling pipes exposed, and the whole studio had a cool, creative vibe. Yup. Those ceiling pipes were really interesting.
There was movement at the corner of my eye, and I prayed to whatever god might be listening that my client’s underwear was still on.
“Ronan?” Devoid said my name, maybe not for the first time, and I tuned back in. I glanced over, carefully.
Summer was standing on the pedestal, wearing the white dress. It was fitted and short, just covering her panties, with long sleeves and a plunging neckline that showed off a mouthwatering swell of cleavage. The chest part of the dress had a built-in white leather piece molded to her curves. It kinda looked like body armor.
Her hands smoothed the tight, stretchy fabric over her ass cheeks. I saw that in the mirror—and my dick spasmed in my jeans.
I leaned forward on my knees to cover it.
Was she deliberately torturing me?
I glanced at her face, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She was looking over her shoulder, checking out her ass in the mirror.
“What do you think?” Devoid asked.
He was asking me.
I cleared my throat. “It’s nice.”
They both looked at me. And blinked, like that comment fell way the fuck short of the mark.
Then Devoid turned back to Summer and started fussing over her. “Sweet sanity, bitch. This waistline.” He started plucking pins from a pincushion that was strapped to his wrist and tucking them in the fabric at the curves of Summer’s waist. “These hips. I always leave you a little wiggle room, you know, so a girl can eat. But your waist is always smaller than I wanna believe it is.” He poked her hip, and she slapped him, lightly, on the face.
“Do not call my booty fat again.”
“Baby,” he cooed. “Nothing wrong with a nice, fat booty.” Then he cackled loudly… and winked at me.
Summer turned toward the mirrors—and gave me a sudden, front row view of her ass. Because of her elevated position, I could just see her ass cheeks peeking out.
Devoid smacked her ass, then turned to me. “Isn’t she fabulous? I could dress her up all day.”
I tried to make a noncommittal sound, but it came out a garbled growl that neither of them probably heard over the music. Summer met my eyes in the mirror. She smiled a little, then rolled her eyes.
I tried to smile back, a little, but it didn’t happen.
If this guy wasn’t so obviously gay, that ass slap would’ve really fucking bothered me. This whole conversation would’ve bothered me.
Kinda did anyway.
“It’s very warrior-chic,” Devoid announced, looking her over. “But the pièce de résistance…” He reached for what looked like a hat box on one of the tables.
Summer gasped. “It came already?”
“Baby, I only work with the best.” He lifted the lid off the box and held it out to her, like he was presenting a crown to a royal. “Custom-made to our exact specifications.”
Summer reached in and pulled out what was obviously some kind of headpiece. He helped her put it on. It looked like a tall, stylized mohawk; a strip of white leather ran down the middle of her head, with a plume of white feathers in a line.
“You need a sword,” Devoid concluded.
Summer laughed. “Music is my weapon, sweetheart.”
He turned to me again. “Would you dance for this woman?”
“I might,” I forced out.
Summer smirked. She checked out her reflection again, gushed, “Love,” then removed the headpiece and handed it to Devoid. “Wearing it at the Toronto show.”
Devoid seemed thrilled.
He said something flirtatious and put the headpiece back in the box, but I didn’t even see him anymore. I couldn’t stop staring at Summer.
Her toned thighs in that short dress…
She smiled at me a little, when she caught me staring, her pale-blue eyes meeting mine… and my heart creaked in my chest under a thick layer of ice.
I barely clocked what was happening as Devoid reached to unzip the dress and she peeled it down—shaking it down over her shoulders, so her tits jiggled obscenely in her nude bra.
I looked away again.
My balls were fucking aching.
I really wasn’t sure if Devoid was embarrassing her… or if she was loving the fact that I was sitting through this, and I was uncomfortable as hell.
Either way, I sat through five more outfits—and the near-nakedness in-between—before it was finally over.
Devoid’s lack of subtlety? It extended to his clothing designs. Every outfit looked a lot more like lingerie for some bawdy burlesque show than actual clothes.
By the time Summer slipped back into her wrap dress and said goodbye to him, I was covered in sweat. My cock had been hard so long, everything was kind of a blur.
All I could think about was jacking off. Soon.
With visions of Summer in her see-through underwear in my head.
Chapter Thirteen
Ronan
“So?” Summer said. “What did you think?”
We’d just walked out of Devoid’s studio, and she was glowing.
I was throbbing. My whole body was thumping with arousal, and now that we were outside, it didn’t feel any better. More like I realized how intense my reaction to her changing in front of me was.
Kinda like when you stand up for the first time after drinking too much and realize how wrecked you are.
I was careful not to look at her as I loaded the garment bags with her new outfits into the trunk of her car for her. Devoid’s seamstresses had finished some of them, and the others would be delivered to her house next week.
I really couldn’t wait to see her in them—and have a hard-on all fucking night at every one of her shows, since that seemed to be the way this was headed. Devoid had insisted she wear the white sex-warrior dress and the headdress with “some serious spread-’em-and-fuck-me-up-against-the-wall boots”… which Summer had assured him she owned.
Yeah. Couldn’t wait to see that.
Literally.
Jesus, I was fucked here.
“About what?” I said, as flatly as I could. Like I’d tuned right out and had no idea what she was talking about.
I was just her bodyguard, right? And today, I’d learned a major lesson.
Next time, I could stand my ass outside the door of the designer’s studio and keep her just as safe. Because there was no way I was sitting through that again. I felt like I’d just had a front row seat to the hottest, slowest, most torturous strip show in history… and now had to sit right next to the star of the show and pretend I didn’t want her.
“The outfits, obviously,” she said. “I’m wearing them at some of my final club shows this year. But I wanted some pieces that would also work for my new life as a rock star. Devoid’s creations aren’t cheap.”
“Right,” I said vaguely.
I shut the trunk and she followed me around the car. “So, which ones did you like?”
“I really don’t have an opinion.” I reached to open her car door for her, but she didn’t get in. She just stood there, staring at me while I avoided her eyes.
“Sure you do. You wear clothes. You look at women in clothes, and out of them. So tell me what you thought.”
“I’m really not an expert in fashion.”
She put her hands on her hips, which was never a good sign; I’d learned that by now. “How did I look in them?” she demanded.
“You looked great.”
“Great…” She considered that. “Great, like, ‘Yeah, grandma, you look great in that sweater.’ Or great, like, ‘I want to put my dick in that?’”
Her boldness, as usual, left me kinda speechless.
“Uh… more of the second thing
,” I muttered, and gestured toward the car seat. “Please, have a seat.”
But she was still staring at me.
She finally got into the car and I shut her door. As I walked around the car, I adjusted my dick, hoping she couldn’t see me in a mirror, and equally hoping Devoid wasn’t looking out a window. Because if he was, he was definitely texting her that information.
When I got in the car, she didn’t start it up. I felt her looking at me, so I looked her right in the eye and tried to relay the message that nothing was wrong here. That I was cool and in control, as always.
I wasn’t sure it worked.
“I consider it part of my job to be sexy,” she informed me. “If you hadn’t noticed.”
Yeah. I noticed.
“So. Which outfit made you want to fuck me the most?” she pressed. “That’s what I’m asking.”
I fixed my gaze somewhere out the window and muttered, “They were all pretty equal in that regard.” If I didn’t answer her honestly, I was pretty sure we’d be sitting here all day.
When she still didn’t get us moving, I glanced at her again. She was grinning. “You really didn’t have to sit through all that,” she said. “I was kinda messing with you.”
Well, fuck. That was irritating.
And maybe kinda… hot?
But that was just my dick trying to run the show.
“It’s fine,” I said neutrally, looking out the window again in hopes of getting us moving. “Just doing my job.”
“Mm-hmm. Your job.”
I could feel her eying me, still, and looked over to find her gaze drifting down my body. I wasn’t even gonna look down. Really wasn’t sure how obvious it was that I was still half-hard. Definitely hoping my jacket was covering it, but drawing attention to it wasn’t gonna help.
“And you don’t feel like your ability to do your job is at all compromised by the fact that you’re attracted to me?”
Wow. Woman was direct.
I liked it. Or I would’ve, if she wasn’t my client.
Kinda unfortunate that I’d failed to hide that attraction, but at this point, I couldn’t really be surprised.
See-through underwear, for fuck’s sake.
“My job is to keep you safe,” I told her, being as direct back as I could, “so that’s what I’m gonna do.”
Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3) Page 19
