APRIL

Update: the jacket looks amazing.

I watch it shine under the changing room's lights, the embroidery perfectly matched to the blue of my customer's eyes, and I feel a tingly burst of pride.

I'm this close to pumping my fist in the air, but I restrain myself. The man has a glare that could melt steel, and I'd love to not feel that heat again quite yet.

Instead, I keep it professional. "So, what do we think?"

"It's a bit loose," the man comments, scrunching up his face in distaste.

"That it is," I agree. "Luckily, it's an easy fix." I walk up to him with my trusty tape measure. "May I?"

He gives me a curt nod.

"Jacket off, please," I tell him, positioning myself behind his back. I help him out of the garment and hang it carefully inside the changing room. Then, tape measure in hand, I mount the stepstool.

But even when I'm elevated, I have to rise up on my tiptoes to reach him.

This man's built like a tree-strong, lean, tall. If I can just reach a little higher, though...

"Should I hunch?" the man drawls.

Dammit. I keep forgetting about the stupid mirror. Has he been watching me struggle all this time? "No need," I reply, still straining on my tiptoes like a ballerina.

I can feel the heat radiating off his body. It definitely isn't helping me sweat any less. Between the freckles and how red my face must be, I probably look like a strawberry right now.

"There," I say with relief. "Done."

"Where's the rest?"

The rest? It takes me a moment to grasp what he means. "Of the suit?"

"Yes," the man replies, that familiar impatience ringing out again. "Unless you were planning to send me out there in nothing but the jacket."

I hastily delete that particular mental image. Not because it's unpleasant-far from it, actually. That's the problem.

I won't be that tailor. I won't ogle my customers, no matter how handsome or ripped or-

"So?"

Right, the rest. "The jacket's a unique piece," I explain with a gulp. "We can have matching trousers and waistcoat made on a custom order. The jacket's our very own Mr. Turner's work, so the integration will be seamless." It's easy to lose myself in work. If nothing else, it's a welcome distraction from the man's gaze. "We'll take the rest of your measurements and schedule a fitting to make sure everything's the perfect size."

"Hm," the man says.

And, for a while, that's all he says.

It strikes me suddenly how alone we are. The building is hushed like only quiet tailor shops can be. The windows are far on the other side of the room. There'd be no one here to watch if I knelt down from the stepstool and...

"Well then?" he demands eventually, making me blink in confusion.

"Pardon me?"

He doesn't even try to hide the eye roll. Asshole. "Aren't you going to measure me?"

"Oh, that's-" I swallow hard. "We can put you on the calendar, for sure. It's just that Mr. Turner has already gone home for the day, so -"

"You do it."

I'd really, really rather not. "I, um..."

Wrong answer. "I'm a busy man, Ms. Flowers," the man snaps, not bothering to disguise his annoyance. "Either we get this done quickly, or we won't be getting it done at all. Am I making myself clear?"

For one moment, I reconsider prison.

Then I reconsider it again. I put my best smile back on and stuff my hands in my pockets. "Certainly, sir. Let me just get my notebook."

I hurry out of the changing room, counting down from ten in the process. What a huge, insufferable, selfish-

"Should I undress?" the man calls out from the changing room.

"No!" I squeal, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I mean, uh, no. There's no need." And then, because there's no blood left for my brain, apparently, I add, "Thank you, though."

Silence.

I bury my face in my hands. "What the fuck?" I mutter to myself, burning to the tips of my ears.

Then I yank my godforsaken notebook and pen out from under a mountain of tags and tickets and make my way back into the devil's den.

Thus begin the most painfully awkward ten minutes of my life.

Get it over with, I coach myself again and again. Just get it over with. This'll all be over soon. I take mystery man's measurements from head to toe-literally. He's gonna need shoes, too, so that's important.

Most of all, though, he's gonna need pants.

When I kneel in front of him, touching my tape measure to his belt and looping it all the way around his groin, I wish for instant, sudden death. Is it possible to die from mortification?

No, clearly not. Otherwise, June would be writing my obituary right now. April Flowers, Diligent Employee, Died in the Line of Duty. Leaves Behind a Bereaved Best Friend, a Half-Blind Cat, and a Sexual Harassment Lawsuit.

Normally, I'd be making small talk to break the tension. Cracking jokes, even. But this guy's like a statue: unmoving, unspeaking, unblinking.

That last part especially is messing with my head. Whenever I find myself glancing up, there he is, blue eyes burning a hole in me from above. Looking down on me.

How easily I can picture his big hand sliding into the roots of my hair, my hands sliding up his -

"All done!" I blurt out, jumping to my feet. "Will you, uhh-will you be needing a shirt as well?"

The usual glare ensues. "Unless you -"

"Figured," I cut in with a nervous chuckle. "I'll go grab it for you. I have just the thing."

I disappear as quickly as my feet can carry me.

In the shop, I take a few seconds more than my task would warrant to catch my breath. My head's spinning, and I'm afraid low blood pressure has nothing to do with it. God, this is all June's fault. My best friend is always saying I need to "get out there," need to get myself on Tinder, need to get myself some that. No wonder my mind's in the gutter.

"Ms. Flowers?" an irritated voice calls from the changing room. "Are you sewing my shirt from scratch?"

"Coming!" I call back, instantly cringing from the word choice.

"In the gutter" might be a step up from where my brain currently is, actually.

I bring him a sleek gray shirt. "It might seem counterintuitive, to wear something this dark underneath," I explain, holding out the piece to him. "But trust me. You'll thank me later."

The man frowns. After a beat, however, he takes the shirt. "I guess we'll see."

I leave the changing room, giving him privacy and giving me permission to breathe again. As soon as I'm out, I loose a big exhale, letting my shoulders slump.

"What a day," I croak, walking around the shop to gather myself.

That's when I see it. In the accessories section, rolled up neatly in its display case: a tie. Cornflower blue with indigo details.

It's a perfect match.

I run excitedly back into the changing room, forgetting everything. When clothes are involved, I tend to forget about the world. "Sir, I think this would look great..."

I did say forgetting everything, right? Including the purpose of changing rooms.

I don't knock. That's my first mistake. I just swing the door wide open, picturing that beautiful tie framed by the lapels of Elias's masterpiece -

"... on you."

And my half-naked customer glares at me.

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.