He was a bit of a horror movie buff and fascinated by serial killers… and she had been pushing all the wrong buttons.
He had had a guy go down on him like it was a challenge.Seriously, all that gagging in porno greatly overestimated the appeal of having someone choke on one’s dick.He was fearful he was going to have a lapful of the guy’s lunch before he succeeded in whatever challenge he had set for himself, so Evan had faked an emergency and got the hell out of Dodge.
After several brushes with disaster of the physically and mentally scarring kind -- like that couple who wanted him to dress like a cow and attach him to a milking machine -- he had decided that relationships were too complicated and he would have better luck with his left hand… or his right, if he was feeling frisky.
Then he’d met… her.
“Evan!Don’t make me come in there!”
“Damn it, Lydia!Fine!”he snapped back, shedding the offensive pants and then reaching down to adjust the compression boxer briefs he wore to keep his cock-bounce in check before donning the custom-cut jeans he’d worn into this place.“I’m coming out.”
“But the pleated pants!”
“But your face,” he grumbled, dressing quickly, sliding his Crocs on his feet -- he really didn’t have anyone to impress -- and making his way out of the dressing room.
“What does that even mean?”
He looked into the cool blue eyes of his best friend and main programmer and snarled, “It means whatever you want it to mean, Summerwell.”
“If it means my boss is a tool, then I embrace the meaning.”
Lydia Summerwell was no one to fuck with.
She was six feet of blonde Viking -- not Valkyrie, but Viking -- and if anyone disagreed, she had no problem breaking them into itty-bitty pieces over her knee.
“Fuck you,” he grumbled, trying to hold in a laugh at her smirk.
“Not with that cock-a-ma-jig you have swinging between your legs,” she laughed, tossing aside the armful of pants she was holding.“Besides, you know that I’m only down for people I can dominate, and your little nerdy ass is too stubborn to give in to what you really want.”
“I am not.”
“Then I suggest you go after Cleo.”
He glared.
She glared back with more intensity.
He tried to rally with an eyebrow arch.
She countered with a smirk.
“Give me the damn pants.”He was definitely not running back into the dressing room with his tail between his legs.
No, he had a plan.
And in order to bolster his faint heart and get the fair maiden, he first had to have something to cover his knightly lance.
He snatched the pants that Lydia had retrieved and ignored her laughter as he stomped back into the dressing room.He would get the damn pants altered, or he would wear the kilt.
Either way, it was clear he had to make a move if he wanted to claim Cleopatra Cockie as his own.
“The things I do for love,” he grumbled, taking off his jeans once more before trying to squeeze all that was him into a pair of pleated front pants.
But in the end, it would be so worth it.Cleo would be his.
* * *
“I am not wearing red.”
