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Classic Peter. “I’ll be there in a second. I should finish this one first.”
“Okay, nun,” he teases while departing, saluting lazily over his shoulder.
Alone, I turn back to the fountain and once again think about how I can sit on the edge. Fuck this dress and—for that matter—fuck couture. There. I said it.
I slide my drink a couple inches away and attempt to lower myself onto the stone, minding the dress’s tight seam. Surely this doesn’t look sexy. But then again, if it wards off the thirsty predators, I don’t mind it.
I’m two inches away from planting my butt on the ledge when suddenly, my heel slides on the misshapen stones lining the terrace. My foot shifts and I teeter backwards—
—until a firm hand catches my elbow, saving me from plunging into the fountain behind me.
“Up or down?” the owner of the hand asks.
I blink twice. And again.
The man who caught me and is now staring down at me is a fucking king.
He may be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life, which is saying something because I dated Leonardo DiCaprio for six weeks when I was twenty-two. His features are angular and severe, but they work together to make him look striking. High cheekbones, a distinctive nose, and pale blue eyes—the works. My agent from my teenage modeling days would have clasped her hand to her heart and seen dollar signs the moment she spotted this man.
I, on the other hand, am more focused on his firm grip on my arm. This person—this stranger—is touching me. It doesn’t matter that he’s incomprehensibly, borderline paranormally attractive; he doesn’t get to touch me without permission.
“Up,” I finally decide.
He hoists my arm upwards, bringing me to my feet. Only when I’m steady does he finally release me. His hand goes straight from my arm to his well-styled black hair, which he smooths back even though it’s perfect. The cut is fresh and even, short on the sides and slightly longer on top, maybe to minimize the appearance of the gray beginning to set in his temples. I’d clock him at early forties, maybe. He’ll be a silver fox soon enough.
And holy shit. Beyond this man’s model good looks, he has a body worth losing my dignity over. Tall with big shoulders and hard muscles that fill out his tux in sinful ways. Rock solid. Massive. Jesus, this man is so fucking fine.
My heart is pounding, pumping heat to every corner of my body.
“You good?” he asks in a deep, rusty tone laced with confidence and command.
“I’m fine.” I clip my words, hoping to mask how hard it is for me to stop gaping at him with my mouth practically watering.
He lifts a full eyebrow and takes me in, lingering pointedly on all the right beats. Tits. Waist. Ass. Tits again.
Good boy.
“That’s quite a dress,” he finally comments, once again following the curve of my body with his blue eyes. Can he see that his presence alone has my nipples hardening painfully beneath the bodice?
“It’s a nightmare.”
“You should think about taking it off,” he replies.
God damn it.
God damn it.
When those words leave his lips, I freeze. My brow pulls together on its own.
Are you fucking serious?
“Was that a line?” I manage to ask after a pregnant pause.
“Lines are for men who act coy. I don’t play games.” His expression is unwavering—a focused, ravenous stare that tracks my own.
My hand tightens around my glass. Just when I thought I’d met a guy who could turn this abysmal evening around, who could undo the lascivious comments of the seven bastards who had the audacity to objectify me, he had to make a comment like that.
Entitled. Presumptuous.
