Downstairs, the lobby was bustling with festival people. Photographers, makeup artists, and stylists came and went, as the evening’s festivities across town would be underway in just a few hours. I pictured the celebrities getting ready on every floor. Diamonds ceremoniously presented in velvet boxes, like offerings from a foreign king. Harrowing conversations about shoes and hairdos, as if lives depended on these decisions. I walkedto the exit as slowly as possible, any excuse to be a part of this for a few more seconds.
“Ms. Griffin,” someone called out behind me.
I turned around. It was Dorian’s assistant.
“If you have a moment, please.”
Minutes later, I was back in Dorian’s suite. Alone, this time. The assistant had led me to the door, then disappeared back toward the elevator. Dorian emerged from his bedroom.
“You’re a strong woman,” he said. “So fierce.”
So this was how it felt to win. We’d gone with the outfit I liked best, the fit I’d suggested. And now I was coming to collect my prize. That’s how I felt, anyway.
“Who styles important men,” Dorian added with a smile.
A serious smile. Only he could pull that off.
“He was…” I waved at the air, determined not to devolve into venting about that unpleasant interaction. I could handle men like Fred from Tom Ford.
Dorian came over to me and stared deep into my eyes. I wasn’t sure how much longer my legs would keep me straight.
“He was threatened by you,” he said.
No response came to mind, because Dorian was running a hand across my cheek. The moment I’d dreamed of for months, fantasized about for most of my waking hours… We were there.
I held my breath as he leaned over. I expected him to drag it out, to make me wait so I would want it even more, like he had a few months ago. But there was none of that. He just kissed me, softly parting my lips with his tongue. His breath was minty and warm. Dorian leaned back, checking my reaction, waiting for me to nod, to tell him to keep going. I had no idea how my legs were still carrying me, how I managed to maintainan upright position.
His arms were around my waist now, his lips traveling down my neck. I died a million glorious deaths. Next, his hands rode up my legs, slowing pulling my dress up.
I. Could. Not. Breathe.
It was deliciously slow and heart-poundingly fast at the same time. Clothes in a puddle on the floor. My bare back brushing against the carpet somewhere between the couch and the door to the bedroom. Dorian Fisher on top of me, inside of me. Pieces of my brain scattered around like confetti.
The unbearable ecstasy.
Afterward, we lay on the floor naked.Bothof us naked. Dorian had seen me like this many times before, in the dozens of videos I’d sent him. Of me, undressed. Doing thingsforhim. Things he asked me to do.Neededme to do, even. That’s how he spoke about it, back then. That’s how I heard it anyway.
And now here we were together. I hadn’t imagined it. He’dalwayswanted me.
Dorian’s breath steadied, and I forced mine to quiet down. He turned to his side, facing me. Studying me.
“Such a strong woman.” His voice was husky. Rough. A total turn-on. “Who styles important men.Men, not just one.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“How many important men are in your life?”
It wasn’t jealousy in his tone. Even then I knew that. But it didn’t sound so playful, either. I reached for my dress, but Dorian grabbed my arm, stopping me. Then, he guided it over my chest, touching me with my own self.
“How many,” he whispered now.
“You,” I said, breathless. “You.” My mind wasn’t all there.
“Hmm,” Dorian said.
Guided by him, my hand was now traveling south.
“Who?” he added.
