Erion adjusts himself. Right there. Right in front of her. His hand moving over the obvious bulge in his jeans without any shame whatsoever, making sure she sees exactly what she'sinterrupting and exactly how much he doesn't care about her opinion.
"Elevator's all yours." His voice is casual.
The woman's face goes red, two spots of color blooming high on her cheeks. She steps into the elevator without a word, her spine rigid, radiating offense and outrage in equal measure.
I stare at Erion as the doors close behind us. "You're impossible."
He grins, unrepentant and entirely too pleased with himself. Grabs my hand without asking permission, his palm warm and slightly rough against mine, and pulls me toward the exit with the kind of confidence that suggests he's never doubted a single decision in his life.
Outside, an SUV is parked in a no-parking zone right next to a sleek black car that sits low to the ground like a predator at rest. The kind of car that makes people stop and stare, that announces money and power and danger all at once.
A huge man steps out of the SUV the moment we appear, moving with the kind of fluid grace that seems impossible for someone his size. He's built like a wall, broad and solid and immovable.
"Boss," he says to Erion, the single word carrying layers of meaning I can't quite parse.
"Any trouble?" Erion asks.
"No. Everything's good."
"Where can we go to shop for fancy clothes?"
The man looks confused, his eyebrows pulling together like the question doesn't compute. He shrugs, massive shoulders moving under his jacket. "The Magnificent Mile? Maybe?"
"Follow us."
Erion guides me to the black car with a hand on the small of my back, the touch burning through the thin fabric of my shirt. Opens the passenger door with his free hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I slide inside. The interior is all leather, sleek and expensive and smelling faintly of Erion's cologne. The console displays two words in chrome: Lamborghini Urus.
I'm almost afraid to sit all the way back. Afraid to touch anything.
Erion gets in the driver's side, filling the space with his presence, making the car feel smaller just by being in it. Starts the engine. The sound is a deep growl that vibrates through the seats, through my bones, settling somewhere low in my belly.
He drives like he was born behind the wheel. Confident and aggressive, weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that should be terrifying but somehow isn't. Each turn is calculated, each lane change deliberate, the car responding to his hands like an extension of his body.
A few minutes later, he parks in front of a high-end boutique. Right in front. In a spot that's definitely not a parking spot.
I laugh, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. "That was fast. We could have walked."
"Why would we do that when we can drive and make an entrance?" He says it like it's obvious, like choosing the other option never even occurred to him.
We get out. The man from the SUV takes up position near the car, standing guard, his presence enough to make anyone think twice about calling a tow truck.
Erion holds the store door open for me, the gesture strangely courteous from someone who just violated at least three traffic laws in the last five minutes. I step inside.
The store is beautiful. All white marble and soft lighting that makes everything glow. Dresses hang on racks like art pieces, each one more stunning than the last, price tags conspicuously absent because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
Erion leans close, his lips brushing my ear, breath warm and distracting. "Choose whatever you like. It's my treat."
I turn to protest, already forming the words about how I can't possibly accept, how this is too much, how I don't need him buying me things.
He waves me away before I can get a single word out. "Go. Shop."
I move through the store slowly, running my fingers over fabrics I've never felt before. Silk that slides like water under my touch. Velvet that feels like touching a cloud, impossibly soft and somehow substantial at the same time. Each texture is a small revelation, a reminder that there are levels of luxury I've never even imagined.
I catch myself wondering what the men would want to see me wear. What would make Luan's jaw tighten the way it does when he's trying not to react. What would make Artan's eyes darken with that heat I sometimes catch when he thinks I'm not looking. What would make Erion smile that dangerous smile that makes my stomach flip.
I want to impress them.
