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“Like doesn’t come close to describing my reaction.” He keeps his eyes on me and lowers his mouth to the curve of my neck.
“Mm. I can’t wait for you to show me later.”
“I could show you right now. Christen the new mirror.”
I shiver. The idea of watching Mick slide his big cock in and out of me is an erotic temptation. I gaze at his image, at that wicked grin and all his sophisticated hotness. In a black onyx tux that perfectly fits his lean, muscular frame, he’s my very own 007. The pocket square is silk champagne to match my dress, and his shirt is crisp white with gold cuff links at his wrists. While my hair had taken the handiwork of a salon stylist, he’d passed his fingers through his with enviable ease. The result didn’t suffer any from being effortless. Thick and tousled, his hair falls in the shape of moon crescents at his ears and against his collar.
I turn to him, highly conscious of how good he smells, of how good he looks. Of how much I want him. I straighten his bow tie and breathe through my arousal. “Getting sweaty with you right now would be a risky thing to do when it’s nearly time to leave.”
“We’ll be fashionably late.”
“Huh-uh.” I spread my hands over his wide shoulders. “Tonight is too important. The award is to celebrate your generosity. But more than that, to me, tonight is a celebration of you. Your courage and mettle. You’ve conquered challenge after challenge with strength and class. I love you. Adore you. Admire you. I know how much you idolize Cayo and you are every bit of the man that he was.”
His hands circle my waist, and he presses his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “I wouldn’t be half this man without you. I never would have confronted Malcolm or told my family the truth. I would not have gotten through any of that mess last week without you beside me.
“You’re not just my muse in writing,” he says, making my eyes mist with the threat of tears. “I’m inspired by all I see in you. That pushes me to keep striving to be the best version of myself. The best man I can be.”
I touch his bearded jaw, too choked up to speak.
“Reconsider Molly’s offer.”
“What?” I blink at the sudden curve ball. “Where did that come from?”
“I know we talked about lying low after tonight. Getting back to normal and staying out of the media. But Molly and others are interested in what you have to say. You have followers that are interested.
“I don’t want you to hold yourself back from doing anything that you want to do. If body positivity, self-acceptance, or any other platform feels right for you, then go for it.”
“Okay, wow. Not what I was expecting.”
“You have a powerful journey to share, Dee, and I know you’d convey a powerful message. There’s nothing you can’t do if you set your mind on something, beauty. It’s your decision. But I always want you to shine.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles and dabs at the tears beneath my eyes with the gentle brush of his fingertips.
Whether the symposium or the platform were the right opportunities for me or not, I still don’t know. But it’s his message that lights me up. My husband never wants me to feel hidden or invisible again.
Our limo pulls up tothe front of the magnificent Grand Hotel. I lean forward to gaze through the black-out window, struck by it all. Guests are arriving, and fans, cordoned off by metal barricades, are huddled to get a glimpse of Micah Peters. On the other side, bordering the red carpet, media and paparazzi stand in wait behind velvet ropes. I can all but feel the current of expectation as necks crane to see who will emerge from the limo. When the valet opens the door and tonight’s man-of-the-hour steps out, flashes erupt like a lightning storm.
The fans roar with enthusiasm and the press shout out his name, competing for his attention. One photographer, who tries to cross the rope, is immediately met by the stone wall that is Stiles. Mick waves to his fans, then extends his hand to me. Taking a steadying breath, I set my palm in his, and climb out of the back seat. I stand beside my husband. The flashes are blinding. Smartphones are raised to capture our every move. I smile and work to navigate the length of my dress while keeping my eyes from squinting against the bright explosions as Mick and I ascend the red carpet.
Our security team covers our entrance, their hard eyes trained on the surroundings while the police hired for the event keep back the melee offans. Max ushers us into the sprawling lobby of columns and marble. There, security hangs back and we are met by the event handlers who guide us through the foundation’s required photo ops. We pose for shot after shot.
My cheeks are hurting from smiling so much when we’re finally led away and escorted up an escalator to the ballroom. Sparkly empire chandeliers provide atmospheric lighting. Round tables with seating for twelve are centered by elaborate floral and candle arrangements, and each place setting glitters with silver and crystal. It’s a massive affair. Servers in black and white wear gloves and carry trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
Chicago’s elite, a combination of old money and the nouveau riche, are blinged-out and dressed to the nines. The room hums with conversation and the full orchestra is playing Michael Bublé in the background.
Mick steers me through clusters of people, pausing often for greetings and congratulations. He keeps his hand on my lower back, proudly introducing me, slipping into his public persona with finesse. He’s a natural at schmoozing, using every opportunity to fundraise and educate on behalf of Papa’s Kids and youth homelessness.
I’m not nearly as confident in this situation as I am sitting across a mediation table or being inside a courtroom. But I want to represent Mick well and be an asset to his growing role of philanthropist.
He hands me a flute of champagne from a passing tray and we move several steps before we’re hijacked by a finance mogul, whose much younger wife ogles my husband. I’m holding up my end of the conversation when a group in front of us disperses and I spot my friends.
Jordyn is dressed in a single-shoulder beaded jumpsuit and has styled the front of her short hair into a voluminous pompadour. She looks fabulous if not bored by Lexie’s beau, Dr. Richard Schnauss. With his brown hair rigidly parted to the side and slicked back, he gives off an aristocratic air. Beside him, Lexie is a vision—long and graceful; her lavender column dress boasts a show-stopping feathered skirt. She’s smiling politely at whatever Richard is saying, but appears no more entertained than Jordyn does.
Following the direction of my gaze, Mick makes our excuses. I set my glass down to exchange effusive hugs with Lexie and Jordyn. They extend the same warmth to Mick, while Richard offers him a perfunctory handshake and gives me a stiff kiss on the cheek.
“Yass, queen!” Jordyn snaps her fingers. “You and your boobs are killing that dress.”
