17. Chapter 17 #2
“Okay,” I say. Then I stop. Shake my head. Start again. “Okay, so. Today. Earlier. I got a call.”
His posture shifts subtly, and his lips fight back a smile.
“A call from whom?”
I drag in a breath. “From a fashion collective. Horizon. They’re doing an Emerging Designers Showcase in L.A.
They said they reviewed my portfolio,” I continue, words spilling faster now, trying to keep up with the feeling.
“That my work came through and they want to see everything in person. My designs. My concept boards. Finished pieces, unfinished ones. And then, if they like it, they’ll choose five or six looks for the show. ”
I finally stop talking. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Dom looks at me with an odd, knowing expression. “That’s really good,” he says. “You deserve it,” he adds with a nod.
He steps closer to the island, attention drifting to the spread of sketches. He picks one up. Then another. His eyes move over them as if this isn’t courtesy, but something worth actually considering.
“This is strong,” he says, tapping the edge of a page. “So is this one.”
My smile turns shy without my permission. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He sets them down carefully with a faint smile. There’s something in it I can’t place.
“I just…” I hesitate, the doubt sneaking in where it always does. “I hope they didn’t call me because of… you.”
He stills. His gaze lifts from the sketches to my face, and whatever expression he was wearing fades into something more serious .
“No one makes that call unless the work holds up. Maybe they saw you next to me, heard your name through someone else, stumbled across your portfolio by accident.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “They don’t invite you unless the talent’s there.”
“When you put it like that…” I glance back at the designs.
“So even if I had something to do with how they noticed you,” he adds evenly, “that’s not why they called. They called because you’re good.”
“What do you know about fashion?” I tease, trying to hide the flutter his compliment sparks.
“Enough to mean what I say,” he shoots back with a smirk and places a bag on the counter in front of him.
He slides it toward me and I follow its path. “What’s that?” I ask, looking at the matte black bag.
“For you,” he says simply.
“For… me?”
“Yes.”
“You got me something?” I look at him in disbelief.
“Open it.” He points with his chin.
Suspicion creeps in.
“Jessica,” he says, flat and patient. “Open the bag. ”
I hesitate, then reach for it slowly. My fingers slip inside and I lift out a full set of Caran d'Ache Luminance pencils. Alongside them, a case of matching professional markers—pristine, professional, and so far outside my budget.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I lift the box out of the bag. I’ve wanted these for years and never once let myself consider owning them. I look up at Dom, mouth still open.
“You…” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “You got these for me?”
“I didn’t get them for myself,” he says mildly.
“Do you know how expensive these are?” I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“No idea.” He tilts his head with amusement.
He bought them, idiot. Of course he knows.
I shake my head, still staring at the bag, at the absurd reality of it sitting on his marble island.
“How did you even know about these?”
“Research.” One corner of his mouth lifts.
“You researched?” I pause, looking between the set and him .
“I don’t want you fucking up my Montblanc pen. I saw you using it to doodle.” Now he’s deflecting, but what he doesn’t want to admit is that he sat down and spent time researching something I’m interested in. Went out of his way to get me something.
“So this is what, a preventative measure?” I laugh.
“Exactly.”
I clutch the gift tighter, suddenly afraid I might cry.
“Thank you,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet.
I jump up and fling myself at him. He barely has time to register it before my arms are around his neck, my feet leaving the floor just enough for him to instinctively catch me.
My hands come up to his face, cupping his jaw, warm skin under my palms.
“Thank you,” I say again, the words tumbling out as his stubble scratches my palms.
Then I kiss him, my mouth crashing into his like it’s the only place all this energy can go. My heart races, my whole body buzzes, and for a split second there’s nothing but him and the taste of him and the feel of his hands locking around my waist .
He kisses me harder, one hand sliding up my back as his mouth moves against mine with authority. It’s grounding and hungry all at once.
I pull back, breath hitching, reality crashing back in. My hands drop from his face.
“I’m sorry,” I start, then stop. “I just got excited and…”
He licks his bottom lip, and a slow, small smile curves his mouth.
“I’m glad you like them.”
He lets me go, stepping back far enough to give me space.
“I’m going to go change,” he adds casually. “Try them out.” He points at the pencils before flicking my nose.
Then he turns and walks away, leaving me clutching a Caran d’Ache set with my heart trying to punch its way out of my ribs.
I stare after him, breath uneven, cheeks burning. The joy is still bubbling, but something else entirely is coiling underneath it.
Half an hour slips by before I notice it. The house settled. The only sound now is the low murmur of the show I’m half-watching on Netflix as I go through the pencils. They respond exactly how I imagined they would.
I talked to Dannie not long ago. I told her about the call and let her scream in my ear and hype me up.
I didn’t tell her about Dom. Not the part that matters, anyway. Despite her being my best friend, I don’t trust what happens once other people know. I’ve learned that happiness gets louder when you share it, and sometimes loud things attract the wrong kind of attention.
And I don’t want this examined. Not yet.
I slide another swatch across the page and my eyes drift back to the sketch beside it.
The tuxedo .
I’ve been circling it for twenty minutes now, pretending I’m not. Tracing the lines in my head. Imagining the weight of the coat, the way it would sit across his shoulders, the way the structure would move when he does.
The problem isn’t whether I can make it. It’s whether he’d let me measure him.
I want him in something I created. I want to run measuring tape down his spine, fit fabric against the sharp cut of his body, watch him stand still while I adjust every stitch. I want him to let me. To give me that kind of access.
My heart jumps, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hop off the barstool and head for the stairs.
His bedroom door is slightly open. I pause outside the doorway, fingers curled around the handle.
“Dom?” I call softly.
No answer.
My eyes drift inside over the dark sheets and the perfectly made bed. His room smells like him—clean, masculine, with something exotic. I take one slow step in, then another. I hear the faint hiss of a shower.
I turn to walk out, but notice his ensuite door cracked open, steam spilling into the room like some kind of spell. Something in my chest throbs, tight and curious—the kind of ache that doesn’t settle until you scratch it raw .
My eyes drift toward the open doorway. The shower hisses like static, fogging the glass panels. I can see movement behind them: vague and massive, a shape made of muscle and steam.
I don’t mean to step closer, but I do. Just a few feet. Enough to make out the broad slope of his shoulders, the flex of his back, the long lines of him through the fogged glass. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me feel like I’m five and stayed up past my bedtime.
Dominic’s facing away. One arm is at his side, the other dragging soap across his naked torso.
My breath catches when I see the water gliding down the ridges of his back, hugging the groove of his spine. Broad shoulders taper into a taut waist, water beading on his skin, sliding down…
My heart kicks when he turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his chest, his abs, the cut lines of his stomach flexing as he lathers.
Then his hand goes lower—down his stomach and across his navel.
My pulse stutters. The shape of him hangs between his thick thighs. His hand slides over it in one lazy stroke. Nothing sexual—he’s just rinsing—but the motion makes my thighs press together.
I shouldn’t be watching. I shouldn’t be in here at all, but I can’t move. I’m locked in place, eyes wide, teeth sunk into my bottom lip.
I’ve felt him inside me, but this is seeing him completely unguarded and unaware.
His hand slides up his chest now, across the wide stretch of his pecs, fingers digging into his traps. I watch every movement, every flex, every glint of wet skin through the blur.
The air is hot in my lungs.
My body sways forward before my brain catches up. I imagine him opening that door, grabbing me by the hips, pressing me against the tile and—
I part my lips, huffing out a shallow breath. I lean slightly closer, hypnotized by the arc of his neck, the drag of his fingers over his abs. I want to see his face—what he looks like when he’s alone, when he’s not performing dominance for anyone.
He tilts his head back under the spray and suddenly stops. His hand freezes mid-motion. His head doesn’t turn, but it tilts slightly, as if he senses me .
My breath vanishes.
Shit. Shit.
I take one step back, heart pounding, as he slowly steps around the glass.
I gasp when his dark gaze finds mine, and my eyes automatically take in all of him.
Tattoos gleam across his chest and down his arms, dripping with water and menace. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, massive and perfect, and I can’t move. I’m frozen there—red-faced and wide-eyed, like I’ve been caught in the most perverse dream of my life.
He tilts his head, water dripping from his jaw. “Enjoying the show?” His voice is low and dark as he stalks toward me.
“I— I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to—”
I scramble, breath stuttering, every excuse crashing into the other like a damn traffic pile-up.
“I just… the door was open. I was coming to ask you—”
I spin, mortified, reaching for the door .
Before I can open it all the way, his palm slaps flat against it above my head. He slams the door shut with a large, wet hand, blocking my exit.
I flinch—not from fear, but from the sheer force of it. From the closeness of him. Steam clings to his body; water drips from his skin, hitting my shoulders and sliding down the back of my neck, soaking into my shirt like drops of fire.
He’s right behind me, towering, and I can feel every inch of him like a gravitational force pulling me closer.
I stare ahead, too embarrassed to face him.
“Such a sneaky little thing,” his voice rumbles over my spine, amused. “Turn around.”
I turn slowly, caged by his heavy arm still pressed against the door above my head.
Steam curls between us, and my heart drops to my stomach the moment I meet his eyes.
He’s staring down at me, droplets rolling off the sharp lines of his chest, down the tattooed ridges of his abs, lower, until they slide off the curve of his—
I turn my head to the side, but he catches my chin. His fingers curl firm around it, tilting my face up, forcing me to look .
“Open your eyes,” he murmurs. “You wanted to look, right?”
He pushes off the door and steps back just a little. Enough to let me see all of him.
“Then look.”
Oh God.
My gaze scans every inch of his massive, tattooed body. His thighs are solid tree trunks, veined and strong, and between them, his cock hangs heavy. My mouth waters instantly.
I know he sees it—the flush crawling up my face and the way my eyes can’t stay off him.
He grins. “Did you take a good look?”
I swallow hard.
“Because it’s my turn now,” he adds. “Undress.”
My eyes snap up and heat travels straight between my legs.
“What?”
“I’m not going to repeat myself,” he says calmly. “You get what you give, Jessica. You can either take off your clothes, or I rip them off myself.”
My breath stutters as every nerve sparks to life.
He wouldn’t. Would he ?
I stare up at him, heart hammering, throat tight, chest rising and falling so fast I might pass out.
I lift my chin, mustering all the defiance I have left. “You wouldn’t,” I shoot out, brow lifted.
The corners of his mouth curl. Something flashes behind his eyes.
Then he lunges for me. Then he lunges for me.