Page 38 of Unbonded (Pack’s Companion #3)

I nod at the stylish beta hovering over near the reception desk. “I will. And thank you so much for this chance. It’s beyond my wildest dreams.”

“I am so glad, Kate. We will talk again tonight, yes?”

I flush at the hint of gravel in his voice, remembering last night’s check-in. I try not to squirm on the pretty velvet chair, but I really hope we get more of that long-distance eye contact he’s so good at.

“I look forward to it.”

I’m not sure I should be using that flirty tone with my – employer?

landlord? patron? - but Maria only looks relieved as I return her phone.

She shows me how to use the computer, including my calendar, which already has a meeting with Bram and Corbus scheduled on a weekly basis.

She points out some useful resources about the company and then navigates to a website called Valentine Designs.

I gape at the beautiful image of what I assume is my street entrance, complete with a brass plaque bearing the salon’s name. “Wow. This looks amazing, Maria.”

She gives me a kind smile. “I took the liberty of getting this set up for you, but we can change it as you develop your branding. I’ve popped a meeting with Claus, our Head of Marketing, into your calendar for tomorrow.”

“Thanks again. I honestly didn’t expect any of this.”

“I can tell. Which is refreshing, by the way.” She drops me a wink. “I’ve worked with a lot of talented people, and modesty is often a foreign concept.”

I hum my agreement, since a lot of Sweet Eternity’s high-profile clients are successful people who expect the store to meet their every whim, no matter how frivolous or inconvenient. There’s a reason the term ‘bondzilla’ is part of the industry’s vernacular, after all.

Maria leaves me to explore the salon, and I spend a blissful half hour taking pictures on my phone and jotting ideas in my notebook.

The front area is so perfect, it would break my designer heart to change a thing, and other than a few tweaks, the private fitting room is ready for clients.

The work area at the back also has a small break room and ensuite, the marble fixtures gleaming under the lights.

As for the large, empty space out the back, I can’t see how I’ll ever use it.

That doesn’t stop me from dreaming of the day when my designs are so popular, I need the extra room to expand.

I’m sending a largely incoherent message to Dash and Lachlan (with a lot of exploding head emojis) when a soft chime rings through the salon, and I realize it’s the front door.

“Valentine Designs,” Dash purrs when I work out how to unlock it. He taps the brass plaque next to the door and gives me the kind of smile I feel all the way to my toes. “I love this for you, sweetheart.”

“You haven’t even seen the inside!” I widen my eyes at him, exploding head style, but he just sweeps over the threshold and pulls me in for a kiss.

I sink into his embrace in full view of Fifth Avenue, breathing in his perfect scent.

“It’s so beyond crazy,” I tell him when I break away, even dizzier than before.

“I never thought I’d have something like this. ”

“Never?” He cocks a brow at me as he tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and starts exploring. “You know how talented you are. This was always in your future, Kate.”

I shrug, but now the shock is wearing off, I realize I don’t feel quite so overwhelmed.

In fact, the salon is rekindling an image I had of myself in my early college years, when I wanted to set the world alight with my designs.

It’s impossible not to feel a shiver of excitement as I look around the salon.

“I’m going to try really hard to make you all proud of me. ”

“Already am,” he says, tilting my face up for a longer, lingering kiss.

He’s dressed in what he calls his streetwear, consisting of soft cotton pants and a long-sleeved denim shirt, the cuffs rolled back over his wrists.

His dark hair is pulled back in a messy topknot, but given the confident way he holds himself, he could be wearing his Valentino tuxedo – or wearing nothing at all.

“Well, hold the accolades until I show you the finished product.”

I wag my brows at him, and Dash almost launches himself across the room at the garment bag. “Is this it? Is it ready?”

“Just needs a final check.” I sweep my hand towards the rose velvet drapes. “Would you be so kind as to enter my private fitting room, Mr. Devereux?”

His dark eyes flare with heat, and he struts through the curtain with all the swagger of a principal danseur.

I follow, taking in my pink cheeks in the wraparound mirrors as I hang the bag from one of the built-in racks.

It’s another beautiful space, shaped like a hexagon, with wooden alcoves to display shoes and accessories.

Dash has already mounted the small dais in the middle of the gray silk carpet, and a couple of fantasies trickle through my head as I soak in his beautiful face from every angle.

As he shucks off his shirt, I slowly unzip the bag, letting the anticipation build. Dash gives me a slow, teasing smile, but I can hear his breath catch as I finally unveil my creation.

“Holy haute couture, sweetheart,” he gasps, eyes wide and adoring. “It’s a masterpiece.”

I give a giddy laugh, because a gushing Dash pushes every one of my buttons. “Try it on first.”

He sheds his compression tank with lightning speed, and I help him into the jacket, then step back to let him admire himself in the mirrors.

As promised, it’s an evening jacket worthy of opening night, but with embellishments that pay homage to the production.

The velvet is a deep, shimmering claret with black silk lapels and gold stitching on the cuffs.

I fancied it up with ornamental pieces befitting a soldier, including hand-sewn black studs and tiny gold crystals on the leather shoulder patches.

I also added gold chains to loop across his shoulders and connect to the gilding on the breast pocket.

It’s both masculine and extravagant – which sums up Dash pretty well, in my mind.

“Damn, it’s perfect, Kate.” I smile as he preens in the mirror, and I can’t resist moving around him to adjust the fabric against his body.

“I can’t wait to try it on with my tuxedo pants – or maybe a pair of fitted leather trousers.

” I smirk at the wicked gleam in his eyes, and he bites his lip. “What can I say? I was born to strut.”

“You definitely were,” I agree. “And I think you should go bare-chested under it, like you are now.” I can’t resist running my fingers over the lapels, soaking up some of his body heat. “Your torso is incredible, and it will play up the deep V of the jacket.”

Heat licks through his eyes, and he grabs my hand, pressing it flat against his chest. “You make me feel incredible, Kate.”

“I had something pretty amazing to work with.” Our gazes cling for a moment, tension building between us, but then I huff out a breath and click my fingers. “Come on, soldier. That needs to be pressed and wrapped until opening night.”

He sheds the jacket with great reluctance, but I’ve barely hung it on the rack before he presses his bare chest against my back.

I’m wearing a cream cashmere sweater, and his hands slide under the fluffy fabric to cup my breasts.

“Look how pretty you are,” he croons, nuzzling my neck as he stares at our reflection.

“I like it when you dress me, but I really like undressing you.”

I’d smirk at his cheesiness if he wasn’t swiping a hot tongue over my scent gland.

He teases the sensitive skin for a moment, his hips rocking against my ass so I can feel his erection.

A shudder of need goes through me, and when I brush a hand down his side, he growls low in his throat.

It’s all the invitation he needs to peel the sweater off my shoulders, giving him better access to my neck.

I have my hair down, but he grabs it in one hand, holding it tight so he can lick up my throat.

When my pencil gets in the way, he plucks it from behind my ear and tosses it on the floor.

I cock a brow at him, curious to see how far he plans to take this, and he pinches my nipples through my silky camisole.

“No bra?” He turns me in his arms, lowering his head to gently bite my breasts through my sweater. “Damn, you get me so hot, sweetheart.”

He nuzzles me with renewed hunger, and I grab the rack, his scent swirling around me in a heady mist. When he starts tugging at the zipper of my linen trousers, I glance at the velvet drapes, but it’s not like the salon is bustling with customers.

It’s probably the only time in my career that I’ll appreciate my lack of clients.

Dash seems beyond such considerations, peeling my pants down my legs and running his fingers up my thighs.

Another growl leaves his throat as he reaches the silky triangle of my thong.

But instead of touching me there, he draws me back to the dais in the middle of the room.

“Your turn to be put on a pedestal,” he purrs, but when I go to kick off my shoes, he swats my ass.

“Keep the pumps on, sweetheart. Legs like yours need to be adored.”

I’m not so sure. “I’m out of proportion,” I tell him, giving my upper thigh a critical tap. “Too many curves downstairs.”

Dash looks scandalized as he swats my hand aside. “You’re joking, right? These thighs were made for riding my hips.”

I snort at the Dash-centric compliment, but he just pulls my tape measure from around my neck and sinks to his knees in front of me. “I clearly have something to prove, so it’s time to take your measurements, Ms. Valentine.”

I’d scoff at him, since my vital statistics are burned into my brain, but Dash is already snaking the tape around my ankle. It feels cold against my skin, and I shiver as he pauses at my calf, pulling the tape tight to read the measurement. “This is hot-as-fuck inches, just like I suspected.”

I laugh, but he’s leaning in to gently kiss the skin of my calf, and I shiver at the brush of his lips. “Oh, I like your style, Mr. Devereux.”

“Isn’t this how every designer does it?” he asks with a coy look, already sliding the tape higher, encircling my dreaded thigh.

But he barely looks at the tape, his gaze holding mine as he leans in.

“Mind-blowing sex, if it had a shape and circumference,” he says as he feathers his tongue over the heated skin.

“Mmm. And pretty high on the tasty scale, too.”

I squirm, but he’s already moving on, looping one end of the tape between my thighs and around my back. When he pulls it taut, the slippery plastic rubs against the damp fabric of my thong, and I give a needy gasp. “Dash…”

“And saving the best for last,” he goes on in his honeyed purr, “we have the gateway to paradise. I don’t need to look, because I already know it’s a perfect ten out of ten.”

His mouth suddenly replaces the tape, and I have to reach down to clutch his shoulder.

His muscles are like hot rocks under my fingers, but I’m too distracted by the way he’s ravaging my clit to comment on the tension humming through his body.

I thought we were just playing around, but he seems intent on bringing me to a screaming orgasm right here in my salon, and I can’t say I object.

In fact, when he slides a finger in beside his tongue, stars start to flicker behind my eyelids.

But then I catch the scent rising off him, like smoky florals doused in honey.

“Dash… Wait.” I’m right on the edge, but I force myself to take a step back, his hooded eyes staring up at me in confusion. “You feel really warm, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“Blissful.” He reaches for me again, but I give his shoulder a soft nudge.

“Your scent is really strong, too. I’ve never smelled that honey note.”

He’s still pouting as he sits back on his heels, but then his pupils blow wide and I’m pretty sure I know why. “When’s your heat due, Dash?”

He blinks at me, then sticks his hand down the back of his pants. “Oh, crap.”