“What if I don’t like surprises?”
I smirked. “You’ll like this one.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Promise?”
I closed the distance and kissed him, pulling back just long enough to murmur, “Promise.”
Iggy melted into me, settling his chin on my chest. My hands slid instinctively into his hair, the pink a shade softer now than when we’d reunited in Paris. I made a mental note to drag him to a store and find the right dye. Muted colours didn’t suit Iggy. He was meant to stand out. To shine.
“What do I need to do for this surprise?” he asked.
I massaged his scalp, earning a quiet hum as his eyes fluttered shut. “Wear something fancy.” I tapped his nose. “And paint that pretty face of yours.”
His eyes flew open, grin spreading wide. He pushed up onto his hands and knees and crawled over me, slow and deliberate, like a predator that knew it had already won. My hands slid to his ass. He’d ditched his leggings the moment we arrived in his room after check-in, padding around in one of his cropped shirts and a skimpy red thong that had been tormenting me for hours.
We still hadn’t gone further than kissing since the photoshoot, and my dick had been half hard for days. His skin was warm under my palms, and the lace did nothing to hide how hard he was, pressed against my hip.
“You think I’m pretty?” he breathed.
His breath tickled my lips, sweet from the pastry he’d eaten after dinner. I squeezed his cheeks, making him grind against me. His smile broke, mouth falling open on a soft, breathless moan.
“You know you’re pretty,” I said.
Iggy leaned in for a kiss. I turned my head at the last second, and his frustrated whine made me grin.
“Time to get ready.” I slapped his ass, earning a yelp. “We leave in an hour.”
I nudged his shoulder, sending him flopping onto his back. Irose from the bed as he sprawled across the mattress, limbs splayed like a starfish, pouting up at me.
“Tick tock, Iggy Pop,” I said, winking before retreating to my room.
An hour later, after a shower and shave, I came back to his room dressed in a sheer black shirt and fitted pinstripe slacks.
When Iggy opened the door, my breath caught.
His hair was slicked back from his face, glossy and wet-looking. Deep purple shadow framed his eyes, dusted with gold that made them pop. His lips gleamed with nude gloss. A cropped black blazer hugged his shoulders, fastened over bare skin except for a thin silver chain that dipped between his pecs. Below that, a flowing chiffon skirt shifted as he moved, black bleeding into purple, brushing his calves and showing off his battered Docs.
I glanced down at them and smiled.
“It was these or my Converse,” he said with a shrug.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d worn clown shoes. He looked stunning.
“Ready?” I asked, offering my hand.
“Almost.” He grabbed a small black clutch from the dresser, then laced his fingers through mine. “Ready.”
We took a taxi to the centre of Milan. A small crowd gathered outside our destination, voices low and excited as they filtered into the historic opera house.
“Where are we?” Iggy asked as he climbed out of the cab. His movements were steady, graceful, his body still carrying the echo of years spent in ballet studios. It was perfect for tonight’s activity.
“Teatro alla Scala,” I said, taking his hand. “It’s an opera house.”
I guided him through the throng of people and over thethreshold into the lobby. Cream marble floors. Tall ornate pillars. Chandeliers dripping light from an arched white ceiling. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and paired with the grandeur of the place, it all screamed luxury.
The only one who didn’t blend in was Iggy.
His pink hair and fearless fashion turned heads. Some people stared openly, others with thinly veiled disdain. A few older patrons sneered, trapped in their conservative little worlds. But Iggy didn’t notice. Didn’t care. He slipped his hand from mine and wandered ahead, chiffon skirt flaring around his legs as he tipped his head back to admire the ceiling, slowly turning in place.
