Pocketful of Sand(87)

As I take him in, I realize that he’s a magnificent male specimen. I’d wager that his dimensions are perfect for every kind of clothing, from formal to sleepwear. And, dear God, I can only imagine what a striking figure he’d make in a tuxedo. He’d look like a model. For guns maybe. Or bourbon. Something dangerous and thrilling or smooth and intoxicating.

I clear my throat as I approach, careful of my feet as I step up to stand beside him. I sense his eyes on me as I move, making me feel clumsy and slightly off balance.

I lay the pad of paper on the thin podium to my right and I clamp the pencil between my teeth as I stretch the tape out straight. With movements that I’m relieved to find swift and sure, I measure his neck and over-arm shoulder width, his chest and arm length. I jot down the numbers then make my way to his waist, cursing the fine tremor of my hand when my knuckles brush his hard abdomen.

I note his measurements, mathematical proof of the flawless way he’s put together. What I don’t write down are things that no numbers could convey. I don’t need to. They’ll be seared in my brain for all eternity, I think.

Wide, wide shoulders, the kind a girl can hang on to when she’s scared. Strong, steely arms, the kind that can sweep a woman off her feet. Long, hard legs, the kind that can tirelessly chase down what he wants.

It’s when I get to his inseam that things get...tense. Surprisingly, despite all the other worries that hover at the back of my mind, I can’t overlook the heaviness that presses against the back of my hand as I measure. My belly contracts with a pang of desire that rockets through me. Good Lord almighty!

I snap into a standing position, turning away to write down the last of his measurements before he can see the blush that heats my face. Normally, I’d love all these “feels,” but not now. Not today. Not like this. It seems like a betrayal.

Without another word or glance, I take my pad and step off the platform, moving to the computer to enter them into a New Client form. My pulse settles more and more the longer I keep my eyes to myself. “What’s your name, sir? I’ll set up a profile for your order.” Still, I don’t glance back at him. I keep my gaze glued to the lighted screen.

“King,” he replies, his voice so close that I jump involuntarily. I don’t turn when I feel his hulking presence behind me; I just stiffen.

I type in the name. It’s as I’m hitting ENTER that it clicks. King. The last name of the bounty hunter Tracey told me about.

I whirl to face him, ready to pin him with an accusing stare, but I stop dead when I see that he’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at what he’s holding. Between his fingers is the pencil that was stuck between my teeth. I can see the tiny bite marks as he rubs over each one.

I watch him move his thumb over the indentions, gently, slowly. Back and forth, like an intimate caress. It’s hypnotic. Erotic. A fist clenches low in my core causing me to inhale sharply at the sensation. It feels as though he’s rubbing me with those long fingers. Touching me, arousing me. It’s so physical, so tangible, so real that I have to reach back to steady myself against the edge of the desk.

“What sharp teeth you have,” he says quietly, Big Bad Wolf-style. When he glances up at me, his eyes are a dark and serious amber. “Do you bite?”

“No,” I whisper. “Do you?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”