Taking it Off

Excerpt From: Taking It Off

Whoever she was, she had gorgeous ankles.

Valentine slouched down for a better view. Trim and touchable. The sort of ankles that he could imagine locking around his waist, or even better, behind his head, while he did all manner of naughty things to their owner. And her calves. Firm curves perfect for skimming his hand down. The opaque stockings she was wearing had a slight sheen to them, one that practically invited his hands to dirty them up, or even better, to rip them to pieces in order to get at all that soft skin beneath.

The bottom of the changing room door cut off his view from there, but fortunately a sordid imagination always had been one of Valentine’s strongest points. It was a safe bet that the rest of her legs were touchable too.

Draining the last of his coffee, he crumpled the cup and stuffed it in the gap between the cushioned bench and the wall. Now freed, his fingers tapped a rhythm-less beat on his thigh, scratching the denim. There was something desperately old-fashioned about obsessing over a stranger’s ankles, he thought. Like his inner Victorian had been unleashed by Max’s Christmas party.

Speaking of which. He pulled out his phone to text Diana. SHOPPING WITH K. APOCALYPSE PLS. Diana—mutual friend, sometimes client and spectacular fuck when either of them could be bothered—always did love a juicy bit of schadenfraude.

Over in the changing room, his mystery lady was rocking back on her stocking feet, her left ankle tilting and taking the weight of both. He tilted with it, angling for a better view. He knew by now that this was her indecisive tell—the last ankle sway had been when he’d caught sight of the orange hem dangling below the frustratingly low edge of the door. That ankle had spoken volumes of potential buyer’s remorse before the skirt had pooled onto the floor, abandoned.