Chapter 14 #3
Lilith's eyes light up as she spots a Victorian-era gown hanging on the rack. "Oh, this is exquisite," she breathes, fingers tracing the intricate lace collar. "Do you think it would fit me?"
I can't help but smile. The women I usually date would be texting their therapists by now, horrified at the suggestion of wearing something so outdated to the gala.
They'd be tapping their Louboutins impatiently while I called Jacques, my personal shopper, to rescue them with something straight off a Paris runway.
"Lil," I say, the nickname feeling right on my tongue. “My personal shopper Jacques can have something delivered in thirty minutes if you'd prefer—"
"Absolutely not." She pulls the dress from the rack, holding it against her body. "This is pure magic. I'll be Winona Ryder in The Age of Innocence. A proper Edith Wharton heroine."
The dress transforms before my eyes as she cradles it. What I saw as an antique costume, she sees as a portal to another time—romantic and bold.
"You realize you'll stand out completely," I warn her.
She laughs, a sound like wind chimes. "Roman, I already do. Those people out there are your crowd, not mine. If I'm going to be the odd one out anyway, I might as well do it in something that makes me feel beautiful."
I start to argue that my people should be her people too, but stop myself. She's right, in her way. And watching her stroke that Victorian bustle with genuine delight, I wouldn't change a thing about her.
She looks at me with those wide topaz eyes, holding the shimmering midnight-blue silk dress against her slender frame as she gazes into the antique full-length mirror.
"Oh, what are the chances this will actually fit?
" She cocks her head, sending a cascade of dark curls tumbling over one delicate shoulder.
"One in a million, I'm afraid. It's hard to find things to fit me because I'm, well, I'm pretty petite. "
And that she is. Five-foot-four of pure fire, a goddamn lightning bolt in human form that couldn't weigh a buck ten soaking wet.
Her wrists are so delicate I could snap them with a twitch, fragile as bird bones beneath my grip.
Her waist—Christ—so small I could span it with my hands, crush it if I weren't careful.
Then those breasts, full and heavy, straining against whatever the hell she's wearing, making my mouth go desert-dry every time she moves.
She probably has plenty of clothing challenges.
I can relate to clothing struggles, but from the opposite end of the spectrum.
At six-foot-four, with shoulders that barely clear doorframes and two hundred ten pounds of rock-solid muscle honed through countless hours of surfing and MMA training, I couldn’t fit in most department store suits.
That's why everything in my cedar-lined closet is bespoke, hand-stitched by artisans in a discreet Parisian atelier off the Rue Saint-Honoré.
Even my weekend clothes—raw Japanese denim jeans and Egyptian cotton Henleys—are measured and cut precisely for my frame.
Now I'm standing here, watching her fingers trace the dress's lace neckline, wondering how women like Lilith navigate a fashion world that seems built for some mythical average that neither of us fits.
"Well," she says, her voice like honey dripping from a spoon. "I guess I won't know if it fits until I go and try it on."
"Lilith," I say, my voice dropping an octave lower than usual. "Let me call Jacques. He's used to fashion emergencies and he'll come out here and bring you the perfect dress in under a half hour. I just need to know your measurements."
Then I go up to her and place my hands on her waist, feeling the delicate curve beneath the silky fabric.
She inhales sharply, her chest rising as my fingers spread across her midsection.
"Waist seems to be about 25, give or take," I say, a jolt of white-hot electricity shooting from my fingertips up my arms and straight to my core.
The scent of her perfume—something earthy with hints of jasmine—makes my head swim.
I only wish she'd take off that dress so I could, uh, measure her properly. That's it. That's all I want to do.
She nods, a flush of pink spreading across her cheekbones.
"24 1/2, actually," she says, with a slight tilt of her head, exposing the graceful line of her neck.
"Bust around 36.” She looks at me through thick lashes, her topaz eyes darkening at the edges like a forest at dusk.
I'm not imagining the hunger there. But goddammit, there's all these people still around, shifting impatiently in their costumes, checking their watches, waiting for their turn in the spotlight.
"Size 4 dress, actually," she adds, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
We're standing there, frozen in our own private universe, my hands still encircling her impossibly small waist, her staring at me with those mesmerizing pools of topaz with flecks of emerald dancing around the pupil.
Eyes that would transform with anything she wears, from a ball gown to nothing at all.
I swear to god, I feel like I'm under some ancient spell as I stare at her, unable to look away.
But then she shakes her head, breaking the trance, her dark hair, streaked now with light green, bouncing softly against her shoulders.
"I'm going to try on this dress," she says, each word deliberate and teasing. "Excuse me."
When she disappears behind the heavy velvet curtain of the dressing room, I pull out my phone and text Jacques.
Just in case. I ask him to bring me a green dress—emerald, the color of the ring around her pupil in otherwise topaz eyes—with a halter bodice that would showcase those delicate collarbones and those beautiful breasts, size 4 petite.
I can imagine Lilith in that dress, the silk fabric clinging to every curve, her sun-kissed skin glowing against the deep green. She would look so breathtaking she'll make me come undone and goddammit, I'm not fighting becoming undone with her anymore.
Jacques texts back within seconds, three thumbs-up emojis, and I know he's already making calls.
The boutiques along Rodeo Drive closed hours ago, of course, but Jacques can have them reopened with a single mention of the Kensington name.
He's pulled strings like this before, even though the sleepy-eyed shop owners and security guards absolutely despise being dragged from their beds at this hour.
Lilith emerges 15 minutes later, drowning in fabric that devours her delicate frame.
The dress strangles her chest while the waist gapes open like a wound, the hem cascading in a waterfall around her ankles.
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she attempts a smile that cuts me to the bone.
I rip my phone from my pocket and hammer out a text to Jacques: "ETA? "
Rodeo Drive isn’t far. The boutiques will open early for me—Jacques knows everyone worth knowing there.
He’ll find something for Lilith, though watching her now, struggling with that ill-fitting dress, I’m not sure even Beverly Hills’ finest could do her justice.
My chest tightens as she tugs at the bodice again.
She twirls before the mirror, the fabric swishing against her skin. "Not perfect, but it'll do," she says, her reflection catching the light. She crinkles her nose, shaking her head with determination. "No. I need the 1940s red dress from the Nighthawks tableau. It has to be that one."
My phone vibrates. "Be there in 10," Jacques texts, the man who's saved my ass a thousand times.
Then he sends a photo that makes my breath catch in my throat.
Christ. Mermaid halter neck with a keyhole slit that will showcase the soft curve of her breasts, a thigh-high slit that will reveal those legs that haunt my dreams, all in a silk emerald green that will make her eyes burn like wildfire.
No dress deserves Lilith, but this one might actually be worthy of her.
Jacques bursts through the door ten minutes later, a sleek box tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed from rushing. Lilith perches on the edge of her chair, still expecting the vintage dress from the Nighthawks display. I've kept quiet about my actual plan.
"Who's this?" Lilith asks, eyeing Jacques and the mysterious package.
I lift the lid, revealing a shimmer of emerald fabric. Lilith's mouth forms a perfect O.
"Roman, you didn't..." Her fingertips hover over the silk, barely making contact.
"Try it on," I urge, my voice lower than intended. "Everyone at the gala will be looking at you, not the art."
Her hands tremble slightly as she accepts my gift.
Minutes later, she emerges in the gown. The Italian silk hugs her waist before flaring at her knees, emerald against her olive skin.
The halter neckline frames her in a way that makes my throat go dry.
Through the slit, I glimpse her leg as she moves.
The back dips low, showcasing her spine.
The color brings out flecks of gold in her eyes.
She studies her reflection, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
She stares at the dress, her fingers trembling as they trace the beadwork. "I can't accept this," she breathes. "It's—Roman, this must have cost more than my entire store makes in a month."
"I don't give a damn what it costs,” I say, stepping closer until I can smell the jasmine in her hair. "All I care about is watching every man's jaw hit the floor when you walk in with me."
Her eyes lock with mine, doubt battling with desire. Then her lips part in a smile that hits me like a shot of whiskey—warm, intoxicating, dangerous. "You're impossible."
I grip her wrist, my thumb finding her pulse. "I'm your date tonight. Blake can go to hell."
She laughs—a sound that races through my blood. "And Jezebel?"
"She can burn there with him."