“Zoey, we don’t have all day. I need you to help me blow dry my hair.”
His gruff voice puts an end to my reverie. My hands fly off his jaw. “Right.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve styled his hair perfectly and know all his secret products. At the last minute, I rake my fingers through his thick onyx locks to give him that groomed tousled look he’s famous for.
He jumps off the counter and faces the mirror. “Wow! You’re good with hair too.”
I meet his breathtaking reflection. “I was raised by a hairdresser. She taught me a few tricks.” It’s a shame I don’t use them on my own hair. Like Mama’s, it’s long, thick, and lustrous. Usually, I just throw it into a utilitarian ponytail and never make a fuss. It drives Auntie Jo nuts.
While my gaze stays riveted on him, Brandon glances down at his watch. “C’mon. We don’t have much time. Help me get into my tux.”
Before I can say a word, he grabs my hand with his good one and leads me to his bedroom. Just like the rest of the house, it’s furnished with hi-end Italian furniture. A giant king-sized bed with a mountain of fluffy pillows dominates the room and faces a mirrored wall. A shudder runs through me. Is this where he fucks Katrina? I haven’t thought about her until now. Jealousy rears its ugly head.
“Where’s your tux?” I ask glumly.
“It’s in that garment bag hanging on the closet. Everything you need is inside it, including my shoes.” He points to it, and with my back toward him, I retrieve it.
When I swivel around, my jaw crashes to the floor and my eyes pop. He’s standing stark naked before me. The towel is pooled by his feet.
“What’s the matter, Zoey?”
I can’t get my mouth to move. Or my feet.
“Are your legs stuck in cement?”
A croak escapes my throat.
“Sheesh, Zoey. You’ve seen my cock before. And my body. And seriously, how did you expect to get me dressed if I didn’t undress?”
He makes some valid points. But right now, there’s no room in my head for any form of rationality when the epitome of manly perfection is standing before me.
Holy mother of Jesus! His body is a total work of art. All lean, polished bronze muscle, his chiseled torso and limbs fitting together to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. It belongs in a museum or something. Except there’s no fig leaf big enough in the world to cover up his package. His cock is the size of Texas and below it, a big sac of balls hangs low. He moves to the bed and I get a glimpse of his gorgeous ass before he sits down. Holy cow! Sculpted buns of steel! They’re practically surreal!
“Zoey, come on, now.” He’s beginning to sound irritated. “I’m not the big bad wolf. I’m not going to bite.”
That’s just the problem. I want him to bite. I want him to tear off every stitch of my clothing with his teeth, mark my body, and bite down on my lips. And then ravage me. Lick me with his tongue. Suck me with his lips. And then fuck me every which way he can.
We remain at a gridlock. I still haven’t taken a step or said a word. His violet eyes burn into me.
“Zoey, please don’t make me stand up and fetch you. If you do, I’m going to throw you over my knees and spank you.”
I gulp. My first words: “You would?”
“Of course not, that would be sexual harassment, n’est-ce pas? Maybe even assault and battery.”
Assault me! Take me now!
“Zo-eeey. Please. You’re beginning to stress me out. A limo will be here to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Now, come over here, and give me a quick shoulder massage and then help me get dressed.” He crooks his left index finger and signals for me.
“Okay,” I squeak. With the garment bag draped over my arm, I take one baby step after another. I’m walking like I’m on tightrope about to fall off, except there’s no safety net to catch me.
“Good girl, Zoey,” he says as I near his bed. “Now, lay the garment bag down, and hop on the bed so you can massage my shoulders.”
I’m teetering between fainting and jumping him. Somehow, I will myself to do as asked. I lay the garment bag flat on the giant bed and then crawl on to it so I’m kneeling behind him. I soak in his beautiful muscled back and his broad sculpted shoulders. The body of a swimmer. An Olympian. A God!
Wordlessly, I cup my hands over his shoulders and dig my fingers deep into his bronzed skin, pressing and kneading. He is tensed up; I can feel his knots, especially in his neck, and press deeper to loosen them.
He moans. “Ah, Zoey. So, so, so good. Your hands really are magic.” He moans melodically again, and I wonder: Is this what he sounds like after he has a satisfying orgasm? My own body heats up, and wetness gathers between my legs.
“How do you feel?” I stammer.
“Better.” His voice is sultry and soft. “I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Don’t be. You’re going to win.”
“I doubt it. I have some pretty stiff competition.”
I don’t think he has any competition in the stiffness department. I glance over his shoulder. His monstrous cock is still as hard as a rock. Every nerve in my body is sparking, and another surge of wet heat drips down my thighs. I’m so turned on I could cry.
Rolling his shoulders and head, he lets me know he’s loosened up. “Enough. Help get me dressed now.”
My legs Jell-O, I stumble off the bed and unzip the garment bag. I behold a magnificent black suit draped over a crisp white tux shirt with a plaque of “invisible” buttons and extra long cuffs. A purple bow tie that matches the color of his eyes is wrapped around the hook of the padded hanger, and a pair of black velvet slippers peak out of a shoe bag.
“Start with my shirt,” he orders.
I remove the jacket, laying it gently on the bed, and slide the dress shirt off the hanger, the cool, starched cotton a sharp contrast to my heated hands. He takes it from me and slips it on. “I need you to button it.”
“Okay.” Starting from the bottom button, I do as asked. My eyes stay fixed on his six-pack, and I feel the ripple of each finely honed muscle against my fiery fingertips. I get to the top button and adjust the wing-tipped collar.
He glances down at his hands. “After I put the jacket on, I’m going to need you to do the cuffs.”
My stomach scrunches. I have no experience with cuffs or cufflinks. But next, I have to help him with the slacks. I rummage through the bag for some underwear. Nada.
“Um, uh, aren’t you going to put on some underwear first?”
“Zoey, I don’t wear underwear. I thought you knew that.”
“Oh,” I mutter. So, that fine cock is going to strain against the fine fabric of his trousers. I hope he gives himself plenty of crotch room. I take the satin-piped pants out from the bag.
Squatting down, I slip his two feet into the leg openings and inch the formal pants up to his knees. I’m salivating. His gorgeous cock is only a mouthful way. I can practically taste it. “Stand up.”
At my command, he rises, and I’m once again awed by his imposing size. He looms over me. Gripping the pants by the waistband, I rise, sliding them up his long, muscular legs as I do. I try not to gaze at his erection or get too close to it. Impossible. He smirks at me. Asshole! Tucking in his shirt, I zip up the fly and hook the clasp. Thank goodness, I don’t have to deal with a repeat of the jeans incident.
We’re getting there. I hand him his single-button jacket and he slips it on. I do the button and flatten the satin lapels. It fits him so perfectly, accentuating his wide shoulders and his tapered, athletic physique. The wide cuffs of his shirt, however, hang out from the sleeves. Okay, now I’m in trouble.
“Zoey, the cufflinks are in the bag with my shoes. I reach for the bag and set the black velvet slippers on the floor, arranged so he can easily step into them. I then dip my hand back in the shoe bag and easily find a small silk pouch containing the cufflinks. I shake them out of the delicate see-through bag onto my palm. I study them. They’re simple but elegant gold disks engraved with the letters ET.