Page 7 of Devil Wears Nada
“Stand here,” I directed, pointing to the small platform in my fitting area. “Arms out to the sides.”
Van complied with unusual docility, practically vibrating with excitement. I took out my measuring tape and approached him like he was a beautiful but unpredictable wild animal.
“I’ll need you to take off the shirt,” I said, professional tone firmly in place.
“Of course you will,” he purred, slowly unbuttoning it with deliberate sensuality. Even after a week of seeing him in various states of undress (and one memorable day where he refused clothes entirely), the sight of him still made my mouth go dry.
Once he stood in just the low-slung silk pajama bottoms I’d surrendered to him on day three, I began to work. Measuring was an intimate process with any client—standing close, touching, assessing. With Van, it was torture.
“Across the shoulders,” I murmured, stretching the tape from one perfect shoulder to the other. His skin was warm beneath my fingers.
“Mmm, your hands are so sure,” he said, his voice pitched low. “Do you touch all your clients this way?”
“Hold still,” I replied, ignoring the question. I moved to measure his chest, the tape brushing across his nipples. They hardened immediately, and he made a small sound of pleasure.
“Sensitive,” he explained unnecessarily. “This mortal form has so many interesting… responses.”
I swallowed hard and recorded the measurement. “Arms next.”
I worked methodically, trying to maintain professional distance as I measured his biceps, forearms, wrists. When I knelt to measure his inseam, he looked down at me with such naked want that I nearly toppled off balance.
“You look good on your knees, designer,” he said softly.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help smiling. “Lift your right foot.”
As I measured from floor to ankle, ankle to knee, knee to—
“Is the inseam measurement really necessary when I’m wearing such revealing pants?” Van asked innocently. “You can clearly see all you need to see.”
He wasn’t wrong. The silk pajama bottoms left little to the imagination, especially in his current… state.
“It’s about the garment, not the body,” I said automatically, the lie transparent to both of us.
“Is it?” He reached down, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. “Because it feels like it’s very much about the body right now.”
I should have pulled away, maintained boundaries, kept this professional. Instead, I leaned into his touch.
“You’re making this very difficult,” I said.
“Making things hard is my specialty,” he replied with a wicked grin.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That was terrible.”
“But effective.” He nodded toward the measuring tape in my hands. “Are you finished assessing my dimensions, or do you need a more… hands-on approach?”
I stood, maintaining our close proximity. “I have enough to start designing for you. I’m thinking a tailored suit first, something that highlights your height.”
“Boring,” he declared. “I want something dramatic. Something that will make mortals weep with desire when they see me.”
“Don’t they already?”
“Yes, but I want it to be because of your creation, not just my inherent magnificence,” he said, surprising me with what almost sounded like… generosity?
“That’s… actually kind of sweet,” I admitted.
He looked horrified. “It is not. Take it back immediately. I am a prince of Hell, not a caring boyfriend in one of your human romantic comedies.”
“Boyfriend?” I raised an eyebrow.
