Page 17 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

“If you don’t stop moving, I’m going to accidentally stitch your breasts together.” I focus on the cinched fabric of her neckline between my fingers, trying to find the right spot to spear the fabric.

The harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom bounces off the white tiles and I hesitate.

Denim I can work with; this material is a pain in the ass.

Her fidgeting isn’t helping because every time she shifts, her chest jiggles around, begging for attention.

The bathroom smells like expensive hand soap and the faint trace of someone’s perfume—probably from one of the wedding guests who was in here earlier.

“Sorry. My feet hurt,” Sora says, holding out one leg and shaking her foot. “These shoes are unforgiving.” The thin straps of her heels have left angry red marks across her feet.

After tucking the needle flat against my palm for safety, I grab her slim waist and plant her on the bathroom counter.

The cool marble surface makes a solid thud as she lands.

She loudly sucks in a short heave of surprise.

I thought she was going to scold me for manhandling her, but she’s silent as I remove her short heels one by one, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of her ankles.

“Better?” I ask, before returning my focus to her neckline.

Music from the reception thumps through the wall—some overplayed dance track with too much bass.

A couple of drunk voices laugh as they pass by the bathroom door.

I freeze. The door is still locked, but for the love of God, please don’t knock…

please don’t interrupt whatever this is.

I breathe out in relief when a different door opens and slams shut, making the voices disappear.

Now, back to my mission. This would’ve been much easier if she took the dress off, but I didn’t suggest it because it seemed predatory.

In hindsight, this circumstance is worse.

Stitching up her V-neck with her perfect tits an inch from the tip of my nose is sending very aggressive thoughts to my crotch.

I shift my stance, hoping she doesn’t notice.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome,” I mutter distractedly, trying to reposition the needle.

It’s easier now that she’s sitting on the vanity and more level with my height.

The thread catches on my callused fingers as I try to line up the torn edges of the fabric.

The aftermath of last weekend’s overly competitive game of paintball is showing on my hands.

Sora shuffles again, causing the needle to slip.

“ Hold still. I was serious about stitching your breasts together.”

“There it is again. You’re really calling them my breasts ?” she asks.

“Yes. Why?” My eyes shoot up to read her expression, then back down to my task at hand.

I steady the needle against the satin fabric.

I’m going to butcher this, but my main goal is to ensure she can walk out of here without flashing anyone.

She’ll need to take this to a professional seamstress to salvage the gown.

“It’s so anatomical. Sounds a little funny coming from a guy like you.”

“ A guy like me ? What was our second term, Sora? Because you’re starting to sound judgy.” I jab the needle through the fabric with more force than necessary, my jaw tightening.

She chuckles nervously, the sound echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. “I didn’t mean an escort. I meant an attractive guy…who probably has a lot of sex.”

Pushing the needle through, I bark out a sharp laugh. “It’s not as much as you’re thinking. And anyway, what’s a guy who has a lot of sex supposed to say when he’s referring to your chest area?” The tip of the needle catches the light as I pull it through the satin.

“Tits, I’d assume,” she answers matter-of-factly.

I swear I’m ninety percent gentleman, but ten percent of me likes to test the waters every now and then.

I’d be a blatant liar if I said I wasn’t intrigued with Sora.

I still have no clue what kind of girl she is, though.

She’s giving off preacher’s-daughter vibes.

But then again, she’s awfully investigative about tits, so I decide to figure this out my way .

“I use ‘tits’ during dirty talk when I have a woman completely naked, face in the pillow, ass in the air. ‘Breasts’ is for when I’m trying to do a favor for a friend, like stitching up the dress I massacred…

Again, I’m sorry about that.” I keep my voice low, watching her reaction from the corner of my eye.

Her perfume—something sweet and floral—pleasantly drifts between us.

“You’re already forgiven,” she answers, her voice cracking slightly. “You can stop apologizing.”

I poke the fabric a few more times, securing the thin thread around the two-inch tear.

The needle pricks my finger and I swallow a curse, tasting copper as I quickly suck away the blood.

After I assure Sora I’m fine, I tell her to sit up straight.

The bathroom lights cast a shadow across her collarbone, highlighting the triangle of skin still visible above repaired fabric.

“All right, then. Take a deep breath. Let’s make sure the stitches don’t pop free when your rib cage expands.”

She draws in a long breath, her hand pressed flat against her stomach. The material stays firmly woven together. She chuckles to herself, the sound warming the small space.

“What?” I ask, matching her smile.

“I thought you were bluffing, but you are indeed handy with a needle.”

“Told ya.” After tucking the needle back into the plastic case, I toss the sewing kit onto the vanity alongside Sora’s other belongings. The clatter reverberates off the marble. “Keep that just in case.”

We lock eyes as I take a moment to appreciate the color of her deep brown eyes, but I must linger too long because she bashfully glances away, faint red coloring her cheeks.

The overhead light catches the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead.

I resist the urge to wipe it away. Way too intimate too fast, especially after what I’ve already confessed to her. But I want to.

Instead, I pull my phone from my pants pocket and hold it up. “Do you have Zelle?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Could you pull it up?”

“Sure?” She cocks her head to the side like she’s confused, but obeys without hesitation.

The blue light from her screen illuminates her face as she navigates to the app.

Once she has her bank app open, she hands her phone over.

My lips part in surprise at her transparency with a stranger.

I can see all her account totals. I was with Hannah for four years and never once did she hand her phone over nonchalantly like she had nothing to hide.

Sora’s earnestness is jarring…but in the best way.

“I’m going to program myself in here. Celeste told me your dress is designer.

When you get it repaired, I want you to bill me.

” I type my information into her phone, my thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

The phone chimes as my contact info is saved.

“There we go. Just start a money request from your contacts. I’ll pay whatever. ”

I hand her phone back and she peers at the screen. “Is Forrest Hawkins your real name or code name?”

A dismissive grunt escapes my lips. “Real. I said I was an escort, not a secret agent.” I would hide my name if I had an open call for services on the web.

But all my clients are discreetly obtained through Rina.

There’s an unspoken code. Escorts and the clients who hire them keep their business to themselves.

None of us want law enforcement poking around.

Rina and her ex-husband, Sean, who financially benefits greatly from her side-endeavor, are both revered lawyers, and could talk a judge in circles, defending their legitimate business.

However, what me and the guys do off the books —that Rina most definitely turns a blind eye to—is harder to justify.

“But what you do is illegal, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be a little more discreet?

” Her question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.

Stepping backward, I hold out my hands for Sora’s.

She secures her fingers around mine and leverages my support to hop off the counter.

The slight pressure of her hands sends an unexpected shot of nerves through my arms. She hisses when her feet hit the floor. “Oh, gross. Forgot my shoes were off.”

“Shit. Sorry.” I snatch up her shoes and drop to one knee, adorning her feet one by one, like a scene out of Cinderella .

She plants her hand on my shoulder to steady herself, while I fasten the straps around her ankles.

When I’m finished, she doesn’t let me free.

Her hand remains clamped around my shoulder as I rise.

I show her a crooked grin. “Ma’am, you keep touching me, and I’m going to bill you.”

I meant it as a joke to lighten the mood, but her face goes from mesmerized to mortified as she rips her hand from my body with such gusto she falters back. “I wasn’t?—”

“I’m kidding. Geez, you’re really freaked out, aren’t you?

” My humorous tone doesn’t match my internal trepidation.

I hope she can’t hear my heart pounding against my ribs.

See? This shit is my worst fear every time I consider a genuine, non-client interaction with a woman.

Once good girls learn my profession, they’re disgusted with me.

“I’m not freaked out,” Sora assures me, even though she’s taken two more paces backward. Her heels click against the tile floor with each step. “I do have questions.”

I hold up my pointer and middle finger in a peace sign before leaning back against the counter. The edge digs hard into my lower back. “You get two questions.”

“Three,” she blurts out. She grins sheepishly when she sees the look I’m giving her. “I’m sorry. I think I’m programmed to argue.”