27. Dorian #2
"Original pressing," I confirm, a pleased smile spreading across my face as I carefully pull the treasured album from its sleeve. The worn cardboard feels like history in my hands. "My father thinks it's the only way to listen to music, save for a live concert."
"He's right," she says with unwavering conviction, her fingers gently tracing the worn spine of the album cover I’m holding. "Music should be analog. Digital… it just strips away the soul, the warmth, the imperfections that make it real."
Perfect way to put it.
"You know," she adds, looking up at me with a radiant smile that makes my heart do a little flip, "music is exactly like baking. It’s about taking raw, disparate ingredients – notes, rhythms, instruments – and transforming them, with skill, passion and a little bit of magic, into something that touches people.
Something that feeds their soul." The air seems to hum with her words, like the drawn-out resonance of a saxophone's final note.
As if on cue, I put the record on the turntable. The faint, familiar hiss and crackle, then the iconic, beautiful opening notes of 'So What' fill the room. Elena closes her eyes, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips as her body sways to the melancholic strains of Miles’s trumpet.
"Dance with me, Elena," I say quietly, extending my hand.
She looks at me, surprise flickering in her eyes, quickly followed by a spark of amusement. "To Miles Davis? In a billionaire’s ridiculously fancy music room? Isn’t that a little… cliché, even for you?"
"Trust me," I murmur, my gaze holding hers.
She hesitates for only a heartbeat, then a slow smile spreads across her face, and she places her hand in mine. It’s warm and fits perfectly.
We do not so much move to the music as slip inside it. She follows my lead with surprising grace, her body seeming to anticipate each gentle dip and turn as if we've danced together a hundred times before.
At the trumpet’s first aching crescendo, I guide her into a slow, unexpected pivot, letting the music swell around us. She laughs quietly, and I feel the vibration of it all the way to my spine, warming places I didn’t know were cold.
As the rhythm deepens, so does our connection. I dip her slightly on a rising brass note, just enough to feel her hand tighten briefly in mine. When she rises again, we lock eyes. God, I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like this. Or the last time I let myself look back.
The room softens around us. There’s only the hush of her breath, the soulful ache of the trumpet, and the sound of our steps brushing rhythmically over my antique Persian rug.
In the amber lamplight, I study the delicate contours of her face: the curve of her lashes, the faint freckles near the bridge of her nose, the way her eyes drift closed as she surrenders completely to the music's embrace.
When the final note hangs in the air before fading to nothing, we're standing impossibly close, her palms resting against my chest where she can surely feel my racing heart. My hands are still circling her waist, and I have no inclination to move them.
"You are," she finally murmurs against my chest, "completely full of surprises, Dorian Beaumont."
"Just getting started, Elena Avery," I whisper back into her hair, the scent of it clouding my senses in the best possible way.
Her eyes come up to lock with mine again, a silent question in their depths.
"I think there's something else you’ll appreciate.
" Leading her by the hand, I guide her through the heavy sliding glass doors, out onto the expansive stone terrace.
The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest. But it's the view that makes Elena gasp.
The full moon hangs like a giant silver lantern in the inky black sky, its glow turning the vast, dark expanse of Lake Vienne into a sheet of shimmering silver.
Steam rises in swirling, ghostly tendrils from my private hot spring, nestled at the edge of the terrace, its surface perfectly reflecting the moon like a captured piece of the night sky.
In the far, far distance, the shadowy silhouettes of the distant mountains rise like sleeping giants against the star-dusted horizon.
"This is…" she breathes, her voice filled with wonder as she steps slowly toward the carved stone railing at the edge of the terrace.
"It’s… magical, Dorian. Like the spa, but somehow…
wilder. More intimate," she pauses, her gaze sweeping across the vista.
"Like something out of a dream. Or a fairytale. "
"I wanted you to see it like this," I say softly, moving to stand beside her, close but not touching. "Under the moonlight. When it’s… at its most beautiful."
She turns to me, and in that moment, with the stars reflected in her wide gaze, she looks like something from a dream herself. "Why?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes searching mine. "Why are you showing me all of this? Why did you really invite me here tonight?"
Because you make me remember what true beauty actually feels like, Elena.
Because you seem to see past the billions, past the Beaumont name, to the actual, flawed, yearning man underneath.
Because when I’m with you, I feel like just…
Dorian. Not Mr. Beaumont, CEO. Not the heir to a global empire.
Just… Dorian, a guy trying to impress a really incredible woman.
"Because you, Elena Avery," I say instead, the words simpler but no less true, "have a real appreciation for beauty."
The air between us crackles, charged with the bewitching magic of the night and the irresistible pull of her scent. She’s close enough that I can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. I could step back. Say something clever. Retreat to the safety of casual flirtation.
But I don’t want to.
So I reach out, my hand trembling imperceptibly, and brush a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek, letting my fingers linger against her soft skin. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into my touch.
And that’s all the permission I need.
I lower my head, our foreheads brushing for the briefest heartbeat. Her breath hitches as my hand slides gently from her cheek to the delicate curve of her jaw, anchoring us both as I close the infinitesimal space between us.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative like a question neither of us is sure we’re allowed to ask. But then she answers. Her lips move against mine with a quiet urgency, a slow deepening that tastes like longing and the lingering sweetness of lavender syrup from our cocktail.
She makes a soft sound sigh, her hands gripping the front of my shirt, grounding us in this moment. The world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the slow brush of our tongues, the warmth of our bodies, the way we seem to fall into rhythm without trying.
And just when I think I’ll never be able to stop, she breaks the kiss, our lips still brushing, her breath coming in soft, ragged gasps.
"Maybe," she whispers, her voice husky, her gaze locked with mine, "maybe we should… go back inside now?"
I don’t need to be asked twice.
* * *
Elena’s breath hitches as I press her against my bed, my hands roaming her curves.
Her skin is warm, flushed, and that scent—God, that scent—sweet and heady, like fruits and honey, coils around me, pulling me under.
My alpha's been aching for her since the moment she walked into my villa tonight, with her tight little dress clinging to her skin.
“Dorian,” she whispers, her voice a soft plea as she arches beneath me, her thighs parting.
My fingers find her, slick and ready, and I groan against her throat.
This isn’t like the first time, when I tasted her until she shattered, only for her to fall asleep in my arms. Nor is it like the second time, when we stayed clothed, grinding against each other like desperate teenagers. Tonight, there’s nothing between us.
I shed my clothes, and she watches, her eyes dark with hunger as I free myself, hard and straining for her. I settle between her legs, kissing her deeply, my tongue tangling with hers as I nudge against her entrance. She’s so wet, so warm, and I grit my teeth to keep from losing control.
“Elena,” I rasp, barely holding on. “I need you.”
“Then take me,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Are you sure you can take my knot?"
She arches toward me, lips brushing my ear.
"Take. Me."
I push into her slowly, savoring the tight, molten heat of her. She gasps, her head tipping back, and I freeze, giving her time to adjust. But then she rolls her hips, urging me deeper, and I can’t hold back. I thrust fully inside, and a low, guttural sound escapes me.
“Fuck,” I rasp, the words spilling out as I start to move. She feels like heaven, her body gripping my knot with every stroke. I angle my hips, finding that spot that makes her cry out, her legs trembling around my waist.
"Dorian, oh god," she moans, her hands fisting the sheets, then finding me; gripping, grounding, pulling me closer. I thrust harder, the rhythm tightening, building. Our bodies are damp, moving in perfect, desperate sync.
Her scent is everywhere and it coils around my brain like smoke. My instincts scream to claim, to bite, to seal her as mine. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in like salvation. My lips graze the tender skin there, and I kiss her, almost bite, my control trembling on a knife’s edge.
She gasps beneath me, hips rising to meet every thrust, and the soft whimpers falling from her lips unravel what’s left of my restraint. I shift my angle, hitting deeper, feeling the growing pressure as my knot begins to swell, locking us tighter with each desperate movement.
"Dorian," she cries out, voice fractured, and that’s all it takes.
She shudders beneath me, her body pulsing around mine. The feel of it makes my knot swell fully, tearing the climax from me with brutal force. I groan her name like a vow, spilling into her as everything else falls away.
I hold her tight through the aftershocks, breath ragged, hearts thundering, our bodies locked together in that perfect, fleeting moment.
* * *
As we lie tangled in the butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets of my oversized bed, the only sounds in the room are our slowing heartbeats and the soft, even rhythm of our breathing.
The air smells of sex and something I can now fully pick out.
Ripe peach… mixed with some kind of honeyed fruit.
When did her smell get so distinct?
"I should probably head home," she murmurs, cutting straight through my thoughts. But she doesn’t move.
Right. Tomorrow is the competition. I go back to being Judge Beaumont, and she goes back to being contestant Elena Avery.
"Stay," I find myself saying, the word escaping before my logical brain can censor it.
She looks up at me then, her eyes shining in the dim moonlight filtering in from the bay window. "Dorian, I can’t," she whispers. "I can’t just… waltz into the festival tomorrow morning wearing this dress... and coming out from one of your cars. People will talk."
I know she’s right. But the thought of her leaving, of this perfect bubble of intimacy bursting, makes my chest ache with a sharp pang of loss. "Let me arrange for a car, then," I say reluctantly, already reaching for my phone on the nightstand. "Marcus can drive you."
"Not the Bentley again, Dorian," she says quickly, a hint of amusement in her voice. "That’s about as discreet as a marching band. Do you have anything… less obvious? Something that doesn’t scream ‘I just spent the night with a billionaire’?"
I nod, a reluctant smile touching my lips. "Understood. I’ll have Marcus bring the Honda. It’s practically invisible." I make the call, keeping my voice low, arranging for the car.
As she begins to gather her discarded clothes, moving gracefully around my ridiculously huge bedroom, I watch her, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in my chest. She looks…
right here. Like she belongs. Like this room, this house, this life, has been waiting for her, even if neither of us knew it.
"Elena," I call out softly, just as she reaches for her dress.
She turns, her hair a glorious, tousled halo around her beautiful face.
I cross the room to her in three long strides.
Before she can speak, I pull her into my arms and kiss her with everything I have left.
She melts against me, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me closer, closer still.
And for one perfect, timeless moment, nothing else exists.
As we finally break apart, both of us breathless and trembling, I walk her to the waiting car. Before slipping into the back seat, she glances over her shoulder, her green eyes like Imperial Jade in the soft pool of driveway light.
"Thank you," she says simply, her voice a little shaky. "For tonight. For… for everything, Dorian."
And then she’s gone, the unassuming Honda disappearing silently down my long, winding driveway. I stand there longer than strictly necessary, already counting the seconds until I can see her again tomorrow at the festival.
But as I finally turn back toward the house, something strange nags at the edge of my thoughts.
Her scent. That peachy, golden richness. And how she so… effortlessly took me.
Could she—? But then I'd…
I pull out my phone, my fingers scrolling through my contacts, stopping on a name, a number I haven’t used in years. A specialist.
The phone rings twice before it’s answered by a crisp, professional voice. "Mr. Beaumont. This is… unexpected. How can I be of assistance?"
I glance down the empty drive. "I need something. Urgently."