A boy in suspenders. A girl in thigh highs.
A smutty tale of love at first . . .
I was so fucked.
Fucked right into next week, because this guy had no right to look like that.
It wasn’t just the glasses, black and thick and sitting on his razor sharp nose. It wasn’t the two differently colored eyes behind those glasses, one green and one oddly yellow tinged, or the soft blue cotton button down that was sleep rumpled and rolled up at the sleeves, or the forearms covered in tattoos. It wasn’t the copper-colored disaster on his head or the tree inked onto the side of his neck. Wasn’t the faded brown corduroys or the the way he eyeballed me as I neared.
It certainly wasn’t the two day stubble.
It was the suspenders.
Leather that looked soft enough to tie someone up with. Dark coffee brown, copper rivets and clasps to match. What the fuck? Suspenders? Who wore those, and leather ones, no less? His eyes raked up and down me, slow and thorough and not at all ashamed of himself for so blatantly eyefucking me, speaking before Carlisle had a chance to introduce me.
“You’re surprisingly underdressed for a makeup artist.”
I burst into flames. Cheeks burning. Blood bubbling. Not sure if I should be turned on or pissed off. I took a deep breath, steeling my face. “You’re incredibly overdressed for a starving artist,” I snapped, scowling at the suspenders.
“I’m not starving for anything,” he said smoothly, both hands grabbing onto his suspenders, knuckles going white.