Her long, slender fingers fold around the ice cream cone with unconscious elegance. The lighting of the photo makes her skin look richly golden, and the angle shows me her delicate collarbones and the tops of her breasts, the gentle swell of them right before they’re hidden by her tank top.
Lloyd’s words echo in my head.Fuck her backward and forward and upside down. Get it out of your system.
With one hand, I release the button of my shorts and draw down the zipper, my gaze fixed on Baz’s photo. But a static image can’t encompass everything that she is, so once my dick is out, I set the phone down and close my eyes.
Slowly stroking my cock, I picture Baz looking at me with that intense, curious expression she gets sometimes, as if she’s trying to figure me out. There’s another look I love, too—an admiring wonder and warmth in her gaze that tells me she thinks I’m beautiful. I love being beautiful, especially for her. I want to give her all the beauty I have, overwhelm her with it, make her come like I know I could.
Heat builds in my body, in my face as I stroke faster. Usually it takes me a while to come, but I’m especially sensitive at the moment. I was hard for her so many times today, and I did my best to conceal it, but I’m balls out now, literally, letting myself indulge in the idea of fucking her.
She’ll let me do it eventually. She has to. I need to see her face when she comes for me, from all the clever, wicked things I’ll do to her. I have to witness that dazzled bliss in her eyes, hear the soft whimpers she makes or the hoarse screams—I can image both, and I’m desperate to know which sounds I can tease out of her.
Fuck, I’m close. I don’t usually jerk off without lube or toys, so this feels raw, unfamiliar, and yet primal in the best sense. Like I’m returning to a state I can barely remember, long ago, when I was young and I nearly wore out my fingers masturbating multiple times a day.
She does this to me. She makes me feel young, alive, brand-new, and wild with lust. I picture her naked—pretty shoulders, soft breasts, long legs decorated with tattoos, lovely eyes, and that tempting triangle between her legs, two plump lips pressed together, the crease between them begging for my finger to slip inside, to find her clit… In my mind’s eye, she parts her legs, opening that pussy for me… She’s whispering,Dorian, I want you…
My stomach clenches, taut desperation hardening my body as I burst, groaning aloud, come sprinkling my clothes, my hand, the couch, even the carpet.
Gasping, I stroke myself through the end of the orgasm.
I’m not sure when my gasps turn into sobs or when the agony of longing overwhelms that hasty bit of pleasure, like a tidal wave obliterating a sandcastle.
I haven’t cried since France. Since I left Basil for good.
The sobs scare me. They’re hoarse, barking, broken, wrenched from my lungs like knives.
Why am I feeling this way? Is it just her familial connection to Basil, some remnant of theeverythingI felt for him resurfacing to mock me? Or am I mourning because I have finally healed from that heartbreak and Baz is the surgeon who closed the hole in my heart? I’m trembling on the verge of obsession, and I can’t decide if it’s because she’s the only one who can save me or because by some uncanny chance, she seems to have truly seen me from the moment we met. When was the last time anyone had such power over me? When was the last time I met someone with an unerring moral compass—someone I could trust?
Lloyd was right. This is too much. Too far. If I keep this up, I won’t make it through the rest of the two weeks I promised her.
I collect the emotions—the raw, ugly need, the hollow craving, the charmed softness I feel for her, the wretchedness, the want. I bundle it up, and I shove it deep into myself, so deep that it flows along that inner cord of mine, out of my body and into the portrait.
My sobs halt instantly, relief bathing my soul. There’s a little of that longing left, and I’ll have to keep purging it as it grows in Baz’s presence, but for now, I am calm again. Coolheaded. Prepared to do what is necessary to preserve my flawless existence.
I rise and head for my room to shower, casting a backward glance at the couch. It’s not the first time someone has baptized this place with come, and it won’t be the last. Lloyd has people who clean, and the stuff they use is like magic. There won’t be any stains left behind.
There’ll barely be any sign that I was ever here at all.
14
Baz
One week later
A thick towel lies beneath me, collecting the water that trails in delicate rivulets from my legs. I’m leaning back on a lounge chair, eyes closed, blissfully conscious of the soft flow of warm late-afternoon air over my bare skin. The murmur of voices, an occasional shout or laugh, and the sloshing gurgle of the water in the Chandler’s elevated pool blend with the limpid air.
I’m exactly the right temperature, with just enough champagne trickling through my veins to relax me completely.
I have never been this comfortable or peaceful in my life. Which is why I’m trying to ignore everything that is notthis moment.
The slap of bare feet nearby prompts my eyes to open. Sibyl settles herself onto the lounge chair next to mine, its upper section creaking as she tips it farther back. She’s wearing a one-piece today, though she rocked a bikini last time we were here. Dorian kissed her when he saw her in it. I couldn’t fault him for that. She looked damn kissable, and it’s not as if I have any real claim on him. I’m just along for this ride.
And what a ride it has been. Six days of yachts and restaurants,galleries and museums, nightclubs and lounges, live music and private movie showings. Six days of being showered with gifts and introduced to influencers; six nights of gaining a whole new tolerance level for alcohol. Six days of getting cozier with Sibyl and passably familiar with Vane, too. Six days of Lloyd’s absence—which is fine by me, since his perpetual silentwatchingunnerves me a little.
Six days of the lovely and talented Dorian Gray. When we toured the workspaces of local clothing designers, he spoke eloquently about fine fabrics and sewing techniques. On visits to local museums, he showed a deep and broad knowledge of history and art. In a jeweler’s shop, he discussed the minutiae of the process for resetting stones and determining the value of certain gems with such expertise that the shop owner asked his opinion on two pieces. At a jazz concert, he told me about his personal encounter with the composer of one of the songs, decades ago. Lovingly he listed his collection of rare instruments, housed at his home in Nashville—zithers and lutes, priceless violins and antique drums. He has a tapestry collection, too—probably worth millions—and a carefully preserved array of ritual vestments from various religions.
He’s trying to prove to me that his life hasn’t all been drugs, mayhem, and orgies. Although judging by Sibyl’s whispered stories, there have beena lotof orgies. And a lot of drugs.
Dorian Gray has been selfish with his wealth, except where his posse is concerned. There’s no denying it. He told me he was used to a certain standard of living, and this is it. This perfect comfort I’m enjoying right now.
