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“Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah.”
He grins. “Can I be loud?”
I think about Chris and the way he’s bailing on me. “As loud as you want.”
Olivier’s tailor has nothing but great things to say about my body. “Perfect specimen” is one of the terms he uses while Olivier stalks in a circle around us while I stand on the pedestal and have a Tom Ford suit fitted.
“He’s a model,” Olivier says, a note of pride in his voice.
“I’m not surprised,” the tailor says with a tug on the hem of one of pant leg. “Underwear, I hope.”
I actually blush.
Olivier gives me a salacious wink I tell myself not to read into. He already blew me in the dressing room when he saw me in a black Armani tux, and my dick has had just enough time to recover. If he keeps looking at me like that, I’ll really embarrass myself when the tailor gets to the waistline.
“He stuns in everything,” Olivier says.
I shoot him a warning look, but he only smirks, and I have to look away.
It’s hard to be too sad with him around. He breaks all the rules I’ve learned about depression over the years, but I can’t argue with results. I am, however, struggling more than ever to keep my hands off him.
Last night, before my shift, I’d gone so far as to ride the service elevator up all twelve floors with him so I could make out with him until the last possible second. And since I wasn’t quite done with him by the time we got there he rode back down with me, and I started my shift with a raging hard on.
He went out with Elodie, and she came home with him, too, but I didn’t let that stop me from heading up to the penthouse this morning with the bag of food he got delivered.
They were both awake, although Elodie looked like she’d just rolled out of bed, and Olivier looked like he’d been waiting up all night doing cartwheels again.
She gave me a polite kiss on the cheek, said she’d see me at the party, and then I’d dragged her fiancé upstairs to fuck me to sleep again. This time, it worked. I came so hard, I don’t even remember what happened between spilling on his sheets and him shaking my shoulder to wake me up. I do remember wanting him again, but he said he let me sleep late and we needed to get going.
“Have you ever considered modeling?” I ask him now, while the tailor keeps sticking pins in the suit.
He snorts.
“Just because you’ve never had to work a day in your life doesn’t mean you can’t,” I say.
“I don’t know if you’ve figured this out about me yet, but I’m not very good with someone being the boss of me.”
“So, it’s the concept of employment you object to?”
“That and the imposition on my personal time.”
“Ah.”
“However,” he says, like he thinks I’ve stopped paying attention to him and he needs it back. “If I had to pick a job I’d be decent at, I could walk a few runways and probably not hate it.”
“So, if you ever found yourself destitute, or cut off or something.”
He and I share a long look. “You’d help me with my walk?” he asks.
“If you liked.”
He swallows, and he’s the one who turns away this time.
I can’t say where exactly the question came from. This whole thing I’ve got with him should feel more like an experiment. I’ve never really connected sex with feelings before, and from what I know about him, he doesn’t either. But sometimes I can’t help but think of all the times he taunted or mocked me before I tried to kill him. They seem a hell of a lot like foreplay now. I fucking hated him.
I have yet to ask what his issue was with me, but there was always something there. A feeling. He’s definitely under my skin. I’m sure even the tailor can tell that much.
