22. Sunny #2
True to his word, Dex visits me in Paris in early October.
The last time I saw him was in July, when he flew me out to LA for a weekend.
It’s been a few months, but I’m actually shocked at how much he’s changed.
He’s a lot more muscular, for one thing.
I wonder if they made him bulk up for the movie.
He’s wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater that fits tightly around his biceps.
For the first time, he has a five o’clock shadow, which makes him look a little older. A little more rugged.
It’s sexy. He ’s so damn sexy, I can barely breathe.
Dex must like what he sees too because, after a brief exchange of hellos and pleasantries, he has me pinned against the wall in the tiny foyer of my studio apartment. And his kisses feel different this time. There’s an urgency to them, like if he doesn’t have me right away, the world might end.
I like it .
I start to lift his sweater, and he pulls it over his head.
“ Holy shit ,” I say, as my gaze falls to his abs.
He’s always been fit, but now he has a fully defined six-pack—maybe even an eight-pack—not that it matters, but it’ll be fun to count later.
Right now, I’m too distracted. I kiss his neck and bite him, softly sucking his skin between my teeth.
He smells incredible. Not just soap and CK One anymore, but something warm, woodsy and very masculine.
Something expensive, like the sweater I couldn’t wait for him to take off.
I’m not having sex with Oliver Dexter tonight. I’m having sex with Dex Oliver. The soap star. The soon-to-be movie star. And I’m completely captivated by him.
I unzip his jeans, get down on my knees and take him in my mouth until I know he’s close. Then I lean against the wall again and pull him toward me by his belt loops. I put my arms around his neck and wrap a leg around him.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His hand goes up my inner thigh, and he moves my underwear aside. “ Fuck , you’re so wet,” he says when his fingers are inside me.
I close my eyes and sigh. “See what you do to me, Dex?”
He kneels down and lifts my dress to pull off my thong.
Then he kisses the soft, pillowy flesh of my inner thighs.
I know he adores that part of me, and it makes me smile.
He runs his hands up the backs of my legs and pulls me closer to him.
Then he puts his mouth on me. He savors me like I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
My hands are in his hair, and his tongue feels so good that the room starts spinning.
But then he stands and, with his hands still gripping my ass, he carries me to the kitchenette and sets me down on the counter.
He peels the layers of my dress and bra away from my breast and takes my nipple in his mouth.
He knows how much I love that. I brush my fingertips up and down the nape of his neck because I like the way it makes him shudder.
Then I slide my fingertips down the ripples of his abs and reach for him.
I grip him, and he braces his hands on the counter, leaving space between us, like he’s trying to hold himself back from ravaging me.
But I don’t want him to.
“Fuck me,” I say under my breath. And he does.
Right there, with pots and pans clattering next to me and crashing onto the floor.
Then we move to the couch, where he teases me mercilessly with his tongue again and makes me beg for him.
Finally, he throws me onto the bed, takes me in ways we’ve never tried before, and I’m screaming so loud my neighbor starts rapping on the wall.
But we’re done now.
Dex and I lie next to each other on the bed, holding hands and recovering.
When our labored breaths start to steady, I turn to him, and he smiles as though the weight of the world just lifted off his shoulders. I feel his joy wrap around my core like a hug from the inside out.
Maybe this is the happiest I’ve seen him.
“Do you want to shower with me?” I ask. We’re drenched in sweat.
Dex nods and kisses me.
Then he follows me to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, and he gets in with me.
I hand him my soap but, instead of washing himself, he lathers his hands and washes me.
He even shampoos and conditions my long hair.
He’s so gentle, it doesn’t hurt at all when he combs his fingers through my curls.
I can’t stop smiling. We’ve been in the shower together before, but never like this. The other times, we were having sex.
That was good. But this is better.
I take my turn washing him, and then we go to sleep.
The next day, we explore the city together.
Dex wears a baseball cap to lessen the chances of him being recognized.
It happens from time to time, but not as much since he’s been in Europe.
He hasn’t quite reached international fame—yet.
I’m used to people staring at Dex anyway, famous or not, so all in all, it’s not much different than things have always been.
We take a slow walk through the Luxembourg Gardens with hot coffees warming our hands, a crisp fall breeze cooling the air.
We visit Notre Dame and marvel at the vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows.
We buy cheese, and baguettes, and a bottle of red wine, and eat lunch along the Seine.
And that evening, as we stroll through Montmartre, Dex catches the eye of a street artist who insists on drawing us. Well, really, she wants to draw him.
“Sure,” he says with a perfect smile. “Both of us,” he adds as he grabs my hand. The artist nods in confirmation, inviting us to sit across from her on a set of metal folding chairs .
“Look at that jawline! So handsome,” she says, peering at Dex through her glasses, which she wears low on her nose. Then she turns toward me. “Lucky girl!”
I smile self-consciously and fidget with a loose thread that dangles from my cardigan. My heart sinks. It’s my favorite sweater. I wonder how it got snagged?
It feels ominous. I can’t help but think of Asher and our unraveling relationship. Immediately, I let the thread go.
The artist draws Dex first. She isn’t fluent in English but definitely knows enough to make ongoing commentary about how perfectly symmetrical his face is.
When her focus shifts to me, she’s much quieter.
I panic, imagining what she thinks of me.
I picture the final product—Dex, a Disney prince, all muscles and jaw and big, gleaming eyes.
And me with my wild curls, the Beast. I thought I’d become more confident about my looks in recent years, but it seems all my progress was blown to bits when I visited Dex on the set of his show, where all his female co-stars look like supermodels.
When the artist hands us her drawing, though, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s lovely. I’m lovely. Dex doesn’t eclipse me like I feared. We look beautiful together. I see it again.
That night, we eat in the Latin Quarter—fluffy pita sandwiches stuffed with spiced lamb and thick, crispy French fries. Dex tells me his trainer is going to kill him for eating carbs, and I laugh, but it turns out he’s completely serious.
After dinner, we walk for hours. Through crowded alleyways, along cobblestone streets, over wooden bridges where lovers hold hands and kiss. That’s where he kisses me. It feels like a dream.
If only my joy weren’t tainted by this sense of impending doom.
You’ll never be able to hold on to a man like him.
I’m not worried about Oliver Dexter. I know I have his heart.
But I’m helplessly watching as he turns into someone else.
The abs. The facial hair. The expensive clothes.
Yes, it’s enticing. But it’s terrifying too.
The transformation is only physical now, but where does it end?
How long will I be able to hold on to Dex Oliver?
When we get back to my apartment, he starts kissing me right away with the same intensity as last night.
Maybe even more feverishly this time. We make our way to my bed.
He’s on top of me, frantically pulling off my clothes.
His breathing is heavy. His heart is pounding wildly against my chest. I pull back to make sure he’s okay.
I look into his eyes, but he’s not there.
“Dex?” I ask.
He’s fighting for breath.
“Dex, look at me,” I say.
I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes before he rolls off me.
He’s sitting up now, clutching his chest.
“I can’t go through with this,” he says.