Page 10 of She's Like the Wind

This was music that didn’t just fill the space—it wrapped itself around the silks and satins like a sigh.

Feeling restive, I went into the back of the store, where next to the twin fitting rooms, I’d created a boudoir. A nook with a purposefully decadent vibe.

The walls were papered in vintage floral print, pale gold, and faded rose.

A curved daybed, velvet in a dusky plum, sat beneath a cluster of antique mirrors.

There was a sitting area, too—two low slipper chairs and a carved side table stacked with old perfume bottles, art books, and a silver tray where I kept a chilled half-bottle of champagne in a bucket. For clients, usually. Or, on days like this, just for me.

I pulled out a split of Ruinart from the small fridge I kept behind a curtain. I popped the cork with a quiet twist and poured a glass. I set the bottle into the bucket that had more cold water than ice.

The fizz of the bubbly softened the silence for a moment. I lowered myself onto the daybed, legs curled under me, the glass cool in my hand, and let the ache settle into my chest.

Not long ago, I would sit here and marvel ateverything I’d built—this gorgeous store, this life I was somehow making work.

But now…memory had a way of staining even the brightest things.

I leaned back, eyes drifting to the tall mirror across the room—the one with the gilded frame and the delicate crack along the bottom corner.

Gage had more than once stood behind me as he watched me in the mirror.

His dark blue eyes intent.

I remembered the time when I had just received a new shipment—silk and lace, meticulously hand-dyed in shades of garnet and onyx, pieces chosen with him in mind.

He arrived after closing, which he did most days. When he saw the lingerie, his eyes darkened, and he asked me to model it for him.

He lounged back in one of the delicate chairs, arms draped wide, his gaze burning through me, like he was settling in to savor the slowest, most tantalizing striptease imaginable.

The contrast of his rough, unshakable masculinity against the soft, feminine lines of the chair had its own kind of eroticism.

“Go on, baby,” he growled, his voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey. “Let me see.”

I slid into a changing room and, with excitement thrumming through me, put on the sheer bodysuit thatclung to my curves like a second skin. The lace so delicate, it barely concealed the swell of my tits or the curve of my ass. The red silk threads running through it looked like streaks of fire against my skin as I stepped back into the shop.

His gaze locked onto me with an intensity that could melt steel. Then, his eyes trailed down my body, lingering on every inch of exposed flesh, and I could see the bulge in his pants swelling with every second.

I moved closer, stepping between his knees.

His eyes went predatory, like he was already imagining how he’d tear me apart, piece by sinful piece.

The air between us crackled with desire, and I felt heat radiating off his body, even before I straddled him. I kissed him with the knowledge that he would unravel me completely.

His hands traveled up my thighs.

"You wear this for other people?" His voice was thick with a possessiveness that I found thrilling.

His hands slid higher, teasing the edge of the lace where it met the curve of my ass.

"No," I breathed, my hips moved against him. "Only you."

His hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks as he pulled me down against him, grinding his cock into my wetness through the thin fabric of the bodysuit.

I could feel every inch of him, his hardness pressing against my clit.

I moaned, low and desperate, as he leaned in to kiss me.

His lips were hot, demanding. His tongue slipped next to mine with a hunger that made my head spin.