I roll my eyes and fight the smirk itching to spread across my face. “Stop flattering me, Wren.”
“He’s not.”
At the sound of the deep, masculine voice, both Wren and I whirl toward the doorway, and my breath catches at the sight of Baz. He’s leaning up against the doorframe, watching me with a gaze that pins me in place. His eyes are literally on fire, blazing a scorching trail across my flesh as he takes in the dress.
He’s captivating and magnificent.
If I thought the man only looked good wearing those three-piece suits, I was wrong because Baz King in a tux is like water after days trapped in the desert. With his blue and pewter gaze, he steals the breath straight from my lungs. His tux fits him better than clothing has any right to fit a person. The way it clings to his hard, formidable body, he’s the vision of sophistication and casual with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
He looks suave yet oddly more severe than he does when he wears the suits. His normally sex-mussed tresses are slicked back. A dark rogue strand hangs across his forehead, and fuck me, but I want to jump his bones.
He’s sex on legs.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Bonjoc.” Baz dismisses Wren, his gaze still burning into me. Other than the subtle tic in his jaw, he hasn’t reacted to how I look. Wren pats me on the ass, looking me up and down one last time.
“Please make sure the pap devour you in this dress.”
When he leaves, the air grows thick with tension. My breasts instantly feel heavy in the dress, and I thank my lucky stars for the nude pasties and the jewels stitched to the mesh, hiding my erect nipples.
Slowly and predatorily, Baz pushes off the wall, striding toward me. He stops a few inches before me, his gaze doing a slow perusal of my body.
“Do you like the …?” My words trail off, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, as Baz steps into me. Deftly, he lifts a curled strand of my hair and gently tucks it behind my ear, letting his finger graze the shell, completely taking my breath away. The roughened pad of his finger trails down the column of my neck before delicately tracing the flesh over my collarbone. An audible gasp escapes my lips, and a shudder wracks through my oversensitive body as gooseflesh covers every inch of my skin. Like two magnets, a negative and a positive snapping together, our gazes clash, and I find myself getting lost in the layers of blues swirling there.
The normally taut lines and the coldness that’s always in his eyes aren’t present right now. Baz stares down at me as though he’s an open book, begging me to turn the pages and get lost in him. His hand possessively slides around the base of my neck, and my lips part on instinct when he swoops down and takes my mouth with his. His lips work mine with finesse, devouring me whole. They’re soft yet firm in his intent as he parts my lips with them to stroke his tongue over mine. His hands slide down my waist, over the diamonds and other embellishments on the dress. They settle on my ass, and he curls the pads in, cupping his fingers around my cheeks and squeezing my backside like his life depends on it. A hungry groan vibrates in his chest, and I find myself trying to climb him, anything to feel him inside me.
Luckily, he has enough sense to stop it before we ruin the past few hours of hard work. Seeming to get ahold of himself, Baz takes a step back, and I’ve yet to regain the ability to open my eyes. He’s rendered me completely speechless after that.
“I take it you like the dress?” I pant.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at my face. I thought for sure his smoldering gaze would be aimed at my body in the dress.
“I like more than the dress,” he murmurs, wiping his lips with his thumb to remove all traces of my lip gloss. I want to pout. I want to kiss him and mark him all over again, but before I can, he takes my hand in his to lead the way out of his penthouse.
In Baz’s entertainment room, Wren hands me a clutch that matches the dress, and I slip my phone inside.
“Everything is in there. Makeup touch-ups. The lip gloss. More pasties. You fucking name it, sister.”
I laugh, and unable to help myself, I pull him in for a hug. “Thank you. I don’t know how you worked this miracle, but thank you.”
When we pull back, he winks at me, then looks over my shoulder at Baz. “It wasn’t all that hard.”
When I glance back at Baz, he’s watching me with an odd expression on his face. For once, it’s not that damned blank stare, but it might as well be. It’s a look I’ve never seen on him before, and I can’t pin it down. If I’m not mistaken, he looks taken aback by my reaction to the stylist. Are conversing and hugging the hired help really so looked down upon?
I try to control my nerves as Baz leads the way out of the resort. The few people standing around the lobby stop and stare, their whispers trailing our way. I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking. Can they see just how in over my head I am standing here next to Baz?
“They may not be able to, but I do.”
I push her voice out of my head, not willing to let her psych me out before the night has even begun.
A Bentley Mulsanne pulls up to the curb, and I try to remain impassive. Back in New York with the girls, I’ve seen stuff like this. I know this is how the rich roll, but after a whole day of being pampered and dressed like royalty, it’s getting harder and harder to process. Baz lets me slide in the back first, and surprisingly, he holds my dress, so I can get inside seamlessly. As soon as he takes the seat right next to me, the door slams behind him. Dan gets into the front seat, and in no time at all, we’re moving.
“Thank you, for all of this,” I say, gesturing to my body in the dress. “I don’t think I’ve ever been plucked and waxed the way I have today.” I laugh, and Baz smirks. A softness enters his eyes as he watches me. “What’s the charity gala for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s the Heart for Heart Foundation for orphaned and foster children.”
My brows jump into my hairline, and I pointedly look down at my dress. “Is this appropriate for that?”
“These events are hardly for the cause; they’re more for the show. As long as you come in with a check big enough to make everyone happy, they couldn’t care less. The women take it to the extreme by making the event more about them than the children.”
“Is that why you had me go through hours of primping?” I tease.
He shrugs noncommittally. “The women in this world can be vultures.”
My heart trips over itself at his words; even though he didn’t necessarily say it, he was looking out for me. This was his way of making sure I looked the part and wouldn’t be torn apart by the attendees.
I ask more questions about the event, and Baz seems happy to answer, giving me details and the know-whos. The car rolls to a slow stop, and when I glance out the tinted windows, there are flashes and a black carpet instead of a red one. The Beverly Hilton is jam-packed with limos, extended Rolls Royces, and Bentleys like ours, and the paparazzi lurk on every corner. The last time I’d ever been to anything this big was the club opening.
With one final glance at me, Baz gently brushes a stray lock of hair off my face and leans in. “I haven’t said it, but you look beautiful.”
He’s already sliding out before I have a chance to reply. He bends, reaching his hand out to me, palm up, and I suck in a sharp, stabilizing breath.