Page 29 of To Hell

“It’s impossible to make all three in just…”.

“You will have assistants to help with the sewing,” he slits.

I breathe, it feels like the first time since I handed him my sketchbook.

Assistants. Fair enough.

“Thank you,” I mutter under my breath at his thoughtfulness, then straighten my spine, reminding myself I’m here to take his measurements.

I crouch to drop the things in my arms on the floor, then pick up my measuring tape and stand with it. I don’t dare go to him. Instead, I start to twiddle with the measuring tape, waiting for his permission.

He turns his back to me, dragging his T-shirt up until it’s off. I gulp to stifle the gasp that unintentionally topples out of my mouth at the sight of his broad back.

My trembling fingers ache to trace the lines on the ridges of the scar covering one side of his back.

“Start,” he husks, and I jolt into action.

Since his back is to me, I start with his shoulder length. With shaking hands, I spread the tape out, but I’m not tall enough to reach his shoulders.

“I will need a stool,” I mumble more to myself than him.

He breathes, then struts to the library to get the stool beside it, and I step on it.

I carefully spread the tape across his shoulders so my fingers don’t graze his skin. Even though I want to do it so badly, it hurts every sensitive part of me not to.

I keep the measurements in my head, a talent I’ve had for years thanks to the brutal training from the Bratva. I measure his neck for the other suit with the tight collar, then continue to measure his upper arm, gulping as the pad of my finger brushes across a ridge of his scar.

I step down from the stool, almost slipping because I’m a giant clusterfuck around him, but he is quick to clasp his hands around my waist, holding me to his body. Then, he lets go immediately, as if I might infect him with some deadly disease.

I swallow down the sting from his reaction and continue my work.

I measure his waist, my fingers moving around his adonis belt in a way that makes him hiss under his breath.

I try my luck by tracing the tape up his body, following the line between the blocks of his six-pack until I get to the middle of his chest.

I’m treading on dangerous waters here.

I need to be careful with him. My fear of what he might do to me and what I feel around him combines into something impossible to brush off.

I place the tape over his nipples to measure his chest. The sight of his chest rising and falling in a controlled breathing pattern is making me lose focus.

He wants me.

It’s frightening.

I rip the measuring tape off, then go to my notebook on the floor and write out every measurement taken so far.

I go back to him. We both know his crotch is the next and last thing I need to measure. He says nothing, so I continue. I’m close enough to feel his breath burning the side of my face as I slip the measuring tape between his legs.

He groans, and I inhale deeply. I step to his side, measuring the distance from the tip of his butt to the tip of his waist all the while deafened by my hammering heart.

I step away from him to note down these last measurements, feeling the insides of my thighs damp and my pussy and nipples swollen. I swallow, gawking at him and the mystifying allure around him.

“Are you done?” He says, the roughness of his voice brushing somewhere in my stomach.

“Y… Yes,” I nod.

“Good,” he steps in front of me, making me shrink, and it’s the last thing I remember before his mouth swallows mine in a ravenous kiss.

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