Page 22 of Ruin
9
Giovanna
Political maneuvering and networking may be hard, but getting the perfect outfit for any occasion is easy, thanks to my tailor, Ann, and her team. I bring Tommy to meet her at her shop in midtown, the opaque glass walls glittering with reflections of Fifth Avenue traffic.
“Ann, we need a Brioni suit. Black vicuña. Three-button will look best on his build. Wide notched lapel, nice tailored fit, no vest, silk tie. Classic and intimidating. We’re making an impression.”
Ann nods briskly, snapping her fingers and barking at her assistants in German, all of whom are batting their eyes at Tommy.
“Classic and intimidating, huh?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye, and I blush.
The way he’s looking at me isn’t new. It’s the way he always looks when he thinks I’m not watching. But now, he doesn’t look away when I catch him.
Ann is scribbling on a notepad. “Miss, the vicuña will double the cost, making your total $18,286.”
“Great. Put it on my account. We’re on a deadline.”
When I turn back to Tommy, he slides his hands down my arms, grinning. He hasn’t stopped touching me since the coffee shop, and I’m losing my fucking mind over it. “I thought you said this guy would be wearing a $5000 suit.”
“Which is why you will be wearing an $18,000 suit. As soon as you walk in, he’ll be in check.”
Ann swats Tommy’s arm. “Remove the shirt.”
Without hesitation, he grabs the collar at the back of his neck and peels off his t-shirt. I have to stop myself from gaping, as always. Ann’s assistants do not make the same effort.
Lean and tall, his shoulders and chest are solid and defined by deep cuts of muscle that heave with each breath. His sleeve tattoos intertwine with scars that ridge along his olive skin over veined muscle. His torso narrows into a taut waist, his abs sculpted into a deep V that dips below his jeans like an arrow pointing to heaven.
He lifts his arms for Ann’s tape measure but never looks away from me. The corner of his mouth lifts in that smug, knowing smirk that makes my pulse race.
“So how do I begin this meeting?”
I shake my head to clear my brain. Focus. “Uh, since it’s at his office, arrive exactly on time.”
“Why?”
“It sends the message that you are very busy, but also punctual—good things for a student and a lawyer.”
I brush a piece of thread off the jacket when Ann places it on him. He seems distracted by me touching him, so I pull back and continue. “When you walk in, he should stand up, offer to shake your hand, and invite you to take a seat. If hedoesn’t do those things, you know something’s up.”
Tommy nods slowly, the way he does when he’s mentally etching every word in stone.
“Either way, you set the tone of the meeting: efficient, pleasant. But do not let him fuck with you. If he says something aggressive, shut him down.
“How?” Tommy steps his legs apart as one of the younger tailors crouches down to measure his inseam and makes a fist and raises his eyebrow questioningly.
I laugh. “Verbally. You know how to be in charge, Tommy. Just take charge.”
“Even though I’m not.” Tommy doesn’t even notice the tailors.
“You are if you say you are.” I can’t help staring at the outline of his cock and where it hits his thigh under his jeans, and of course he catches me. When I hold his gaze, my heart pounding, a smoldering intensity passes over his face.
“I’m in charge if I say I am, huh,” his voice dips, husky.
Ann steps to my side and whispers, “He needs to remove his pants.”
My pulse hammers, but I smirk to cover it. “Take your pants off, Tommy.”
I don’t expect him to agree so easily. When he steps out of his jeans, his hard cock outlined by the fabric of his boxer briefs, the smirk falls off my face.
