“Daws.” She says my name like there’s a snail in her mouth. “I’m Parker’s best friend and assistant.” Her laugh is humorless. “A lot seems to have happened since I went home last night. For instance, Parker seems to have lost her mind. A plus-size male model at Fashion Week? Well…it just isn’t done.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. A little while ago, some kid walked in straight out of the pages of a magazine. A young guy with symmetrical features and not an ounce of fat on him. Parker told him she wouldn’t be needing his services for the show and he left, but not before I asked myself what the hell she’d want with me…when she could have someone a lot closer to perfect. Perfect like her. “I doubt people want to watch me strut down a runway, either, but I trust Parker to decide what’s best,” I say, finally.
“Isn’t that sweet?” Jocelyn sighs, tapping a finger on her arm. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough if this was a…” She sniffs, gives me a once-over. “Huge…mistake.”
She walks away.
The coffee I drank this morning turns sour in my stomach and I can’t bring myself to meet Parker’s eyes the next time she looks over and smiles. A few minutes ago, I was dead set on asking her out, but now I’m wondering if I’ve been crazy and sleep-deprived to think dating her was possible. Every single person in this room is rail thin and fashionable and part of her world. Everyone but me. I’m an interloper.
“Hey,” Parker says breathlessly, jogging over to me with black pants draped over her arm. “Can you come with me to the back room? Just want to try these on you before I pack them up for the show.”
“Sure,” I say, standing up and following her to a small room the size of a supply closet. Everyone has more or less been changing out in the open, not that I cared to look anywhere but at Parker. Is she asking me to change in a separate room because of my size?
Christ, I need to relax.
I’m letting her friend fuck with my head.
“You seem tense,” Parker says, already going to work on my zipper. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just…not my usual scene is all.” I brush her hair back. “Don’t worry about me.”
She ducks her head. “What if I want to?” A smile curves her lips when the back of her hand brushes over my hard-on. “If you walk down the runway with this, we’re definitely going to be the talk of the town.” She slips her hand into my briefs and grips my cock, forcing me to trap a moan. Like clockwork, my dick stiffens even further. Lengthens in her palm, pulsing for its favorite person. “How many strokes do you think it’ll take?” she whispers.
“Four. Maybe five, tops,” I rasp, my balls already beginning to tingle. “I’d probably only need one if I hadn’t blown every drop I had in your pretty little pussy this morning.”
Ever the tease, Parker squeezes the base of my cock, drawing her grip slowly to the tip. “One,” she breathes, giving me another full-length massage, root to head. Jesus, that’s good. Too good. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine. “Two.”
I’m struggling to breathe, fumbling with the hem of my shirt to pull it up, so I don’t cover it in come. “Fuck. Can’t believe you’re beating me off.” I look down and almost drop my seed at the sight of her little hand playing with my big, veiny dick. “Fuck. Fuck. I was wrong. It’s only going to take three pumps.”
Eyes lusty, she tightens her hold and fondles me roughly. “Three.”
A groan of surrender and gratitude is wrested from me as I fill her palm with come, my legs unsteady beneath me. “Pretty baby,” I pant, overflowing her hand, thrusting, jerking my hips up and back until the pressure has finally deserted me. “Look what you do to me. I can’t last thirty seconds with you.” I reach down and cup her pussy. “Do I have time to eat this?”
“I wish,” she whines, shifting in my grip, moaning quietly. “We have to leave for the show in five minutes. But afterward…”
When she trails off, I know this is my opening to ask her out.
To ask her to have dinner with me tonight. To spend the night in my bed where I can make her come. Make her breakfast. Hold her as she sleeps.
I’m not sure why I hesitate. Maybe it’s the fact that I just busted in three strokes. Or the fact that she’s more beautiful than any woman has the right to be and she’s about to launch her business on a massive stage. Image has to be everything in this world of hers. Won’t she care what people think if she’s seen with a man twice her size? Twelve years older? Her best friend already has a clear dislike for me. Am I being unrealistic to hope Parker could be mine?
No.
No, the way she’s looking up at me like I’m her hero…like I’m important…
That has to mean something.
“Parker—”
There’s a loud knock on the door. “I hope you’re done messing around in there, because it’s time to go, Parker,” her friend calls through the door. “It’s almost show time and we still have to get the models and all the pieces to the venue.”
Parker shakes herself, using a paper towel to clean off her hand. “She’s right. We have to move.” She shoves my pants down and crouches so I can step into the new pair. “Be right out!” A moment later, she zips me in and does a little shoulder shimmy. “Perfect fit,” she breathes, searching my face. “Were you going to…ask me something?”
Again, I hesitate. She might be too nice to turn me down, even though she should. Wouldn’t that be taking advantage of her kindness? God, that’s the last thing I want to do. “I was just going to say good luck on the show.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders dip a little and I mentally kick myself. “Thanks.”
No, I fucked up. I disappointed her. “Wait—”
“Can you give the pants to one of the interns so they can put it in a garment bag?” She’s already turning and pushing out of the room, but not before I see the sheen of moisture in her eyes. “See you downstairs.”
“Parker.”
But she’s already gone.
7
Parker
The crowd loves Daws.
There is an audible gasp when he walks out onto the runway, looking incredible in the custom suit. He walks his usual way, like an irreverent off-duty bodyguard. Blisteringly sexy. The major magazine editor sitting in the front row nods her approval. And everyone goes bananas. Flashbulbs go off, people crane their necks to get a better look at him, applause breaks out.
A small laugh puffs from my mouth backstage. There’s a little pinwheel of jealousy whipping around in my belly, because I don’t like sharing him. He’s mine. He’s mine.
At least, I wish he was.
He doesn’t seem to return the feeling.
I swallow hard and send the next model down the runway, ordering myself to focus. I should be happy. The show is going amazingly well. And I no longer have to worry about the critics being unkind to this man I seem to have definitely, perhaps unwisely fallen in love with. He’s going to be the main thing everyone remembers from Fashion Week.