“This is the life,” murmurs Sibyl.
I chuckle. “It’s like you read my mind.”
We sigh in unison, then giggle before relaxing into the vibe of the moment.
“He sucks you in like this,” says Sibyl after a few minutes. “Lures you in, winds silk threads around you like a gorgeous fucking spider. Until you’re addicted to him. Until you would give him whatever he wants just to be able to stay.”
My eyes fly open again. I stare up at the deep blue of the sky, darkening with the oncoming sunset.
I can’t think of anything to say. Every word she just said resonates with truth.
“What does he want from you?” Sibyl asks.
I almost say “nothing,” but that would be unfair when she’s being so honest with me.
“It’s something I can’t give him,” I reply.
“You’re like a no-sex-until-marriage type?” She raises her eyebrows. “No judgment. Just asking.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Wants you to paint him nude?”
She’s hitting way too close to the mark, so I laugh it off. “Yup, that’s it. You got me.” In an awful imitation of Dorian’s voice, I intone, “‘Oh, Baz, please paint me like one of your French girls.’”
Sibyl bursts out laughing, hearty peals that draw Vane’s attention. He’s been sitting with his legs in the pool, watching Dorian swim laps.
“What’s so funny?” he calls.
“Not a thing,” Sibyl replies.
“You girls talking shit about me?”
“No, babe. We would never.” Sibyl gives me a wink.
“Fuck you,” Vane throws back. Before he can say anything else, Dorian plants both hands on the side of the pool and pulls himself up in one fluid motion, a glistening bulk of wet male muscle. His swim trunks are barely hugging his hips. One finger tucked in hiswaistband, one good strong tug, and I’d get to see what his OnlyFans subscribers have seen.
I really, really want to know what kind of equipment Dorian Gray is packing.
And I’m not the only one. Literally every pair of eyes at the pool is trained on him as he stands there, a casually posed monument to masculine beauty.
“Vane. Towel,” he says, and Vane scrambles to fetch a dry towel.
Dorian’s gaze travels the length of my legs, halting at the tiny scrap of cloth protecting my privates.
I don’t cross my legs or shift my position. I stare him down. “Objectify much?”
“It’s only objectification if that’s all you see,” he says. “And don’t pretend you weren’t doing the same thing.”
“Ooh, burn,” mutters Sibyl, adjusting her sunglasses.
Dorian takes the offered towel from Vane while maintaining eye contact with me. “I’m going up to the balcony of the penthouse to smoke. Come with me.”
It’s barely a request. I narrow my eyes at him, because I’m a feminist and no man is going to—
“Now, Baz.” He’s walking away, and I jump up to follow him, hating myself for it.
Dorian Fucking Gray. Asshole. Piece of gorgeous, entitled shit.
