Chapter 929: Keep Up (soft r-18, start)
The lock turned with a small, definite click.
It was a quiet quietest sound the room had produced all day and yet it landed with more finality than any of the camera shutters that had been assaulting him for hours.
The rest of the crew was on the other side of that door now. The swarm, the brushes, the reflector he had developed feelings about. All of it shut out.
And on this side: him, two women, and whatever the two women had decided was going to happen next.
They came at him together, unhurried, and pushed Phei down into the makeup chair — not roughly, but with a slow, deliberate pressure with their palms flat to his chest, guiding him back into the seat the way you guide a thing exactly where you already wanted it.
Phei let them and he settled into the leather, spread comfortably before his arms draping over each rest, and looked up at the pair of them with the lazy, dangerous patience, it looked like Phei had never once in his life been the prey in a room and saw no reason to start now.
He was now wearing an open dark robe that hung from his shoulders without hiding much of his chest, the fabric soft and shadowed, edged faintly with white, and born from his element with the natural arrogance of something that knew ordinary clothing had become beneath him.
He looked at them properly. He had time, after all.
They’d made sure of it.
They were built like a matched set — that was the first thing, the thing the eye couldn’t help.
They were both slim, both of them with long clean elegance through the waist that made a man’s hands feel suddenly underemployed; and yet generous where it counted, the fabric of their outfits drawn taut over curves it could barely keep civil.
They were like twin silhouettes; the same flare of hip, the same lush insistence of the chest, the same way the light loved the line from shoulder to thigh — as though some workshop had cut them from one pattern and simply changed the faces.
And the faces were where they parted ways.
Noor — the makeup artist, the still one — stood to his left in a black floral slip of her dress that had no business being worn to a place of work and every business being worn near him: thin straps over bare shoulders, a sweetheart bodice fitted close to that slim, full figure before the skirt broke loose and short around her thighs, the dark fabric scattered with pale little flowers like stars thrown across a night sky.
Her hair fell dark and straight past her shoulders, framing a face composed into that cool, unbothered stillness she wore like armor; her dark eyes gave away nothing and saw everything, while her mouth that rarely committed to a smile and was, for that exact reason, the more interesting to watch for one.
She was beautiful like still water: quietly, and with the constant suggestion of depth a wise man did not test on a whim.
The dress clung to her like a second skin, the thin fabric doing little to hide the soft round of her breasts or the way her nipples had already tightened beneath it in the cool air of the room.
The short hem rode high on her thighs, revealing the smooth, pale stretch of skin that made a man’s mouth water with the sudden, sinful urge to mark it.
And Soraya — the wardrobe designer, the splash — was simply, flatly, the more beautiful of the two, and knew it, and wielded it.
She stood to his right in a cropped grey blazer cut sharp at the shoulder, falling away above a high-waisted skirt short enough to constitute an argument, a crisp pinstripe shirt beneath with a slim dark tie knotted loose at the open collar, the whole severe little ensemble doing absolutely nothing to disguise the body it was poured over — the trim waist, the bold curve of hip, the long bare stretch of thigh below the hem.
Where Noor’s hair was straight, hers spilled in dark waves; where Noor’s face was a sealed room, Soraya’s was like a litwindow with someone dancing in it, warm-toned skin and a wide knowing mouth and dark eyes that held his and refused, on principle, to look away first.
She had a very beautiful round face that ended negotiations. She used it that way now.
The blazer gaped just enough to reveal the her breasts beneath the open shirt, the tie dangling like an invitation to tug it loose.
Soraya’s skirt was scandalously short, riding up her thighs with every small shift of her weight, the pale skin beneath smooth and inviting, the kind of thighs a man wanted wrapped around his waist while he buried himself deep inside her.
Phei crossed his arms over his chest, the picture perfect of him being thoroughly, pleasantly inconvenienced, and let one brow rise.
"So," he said. "Two of you. A locked door. And that look you’re both wearing." His gaze travelled, slow and unhidden, from one to the other and back. "I find myself wondering what, exactly, you ladies have in mind this time."
The two of them exchanged a glance — that swift was like a conspiratorial flicker of women, it was like they’d already settled the matter between themselves and were only deciding who got to say it aloud.
Soraya did, of course.
"Well," she purred, taking a single step closer, the blazer shifting over her shoulder, "I think we can both agree it’ll be a considerable improvement on just our hands and our lips on that very distracting upper body of yours."
"A considerable improvement," Phei agreed gravely.
"It would be more," Noor said — quiet, even, like still water rippling once.
She moved in from the other side, and the floral hem swayed against her thighs as she came. "As much more as the time allows us. We are, technically, on a schedule."
"Tragic," he murmured.
"Mm~" Soraya tilted her head, considering him with frank, proprietary appreciation, the way one considers a meal one intends to take one’s time with.
"Though, lucky for us — you’re far too handsome to need much fixing afterward. We could do terrible things to this face and it would still photograph like sin. Even pressed for time." She reached out and traced one cool fingertip along his jaw, slow.
"Convenient, that."
Her touch lingered; her nails grazed lightly over stubble, the simple contact sending a slow heat of lust straight down his spine.
Phei’s gaze dropped briefly to the way her breasts strained against the open shirt as she leaned in, the soft, weight of her white soft-looking boobs were so close he could almost feel their warmth and their sweet scent.
Yes, they smelled sweet.
Phei’s mouth curved. He let his arms unfold, let his hands settle loose and open on the rests — an invitation, an opening of the gate.
"Then by all means." His voice dropped, low and amused and edged with something far older than the room. "Show me. Both of you."
Phei pause; he let his amethyst eyes move between them, glinting a little from challenge and mischief. "Though I should warn you — I do hope you can keep up. People tend to start things with me with a great deal more confidence than they finish them."
Something kindled behind both pairs of dark eyes at that like a delighted spark of women who had just been handed a challenge and the both had no intention of declining it.
Soraya’s wide mouth spread into a slow, wicked grin. Even Noor’s stillness cracked, one corner of her lips lifting into something private and sharp.
"Oh, Phei," Soraya breathed, leaning in until her words landed warm against the shell of his ear, her counterpart already moving to close the distance on his other side.
"It’s on."
Noor’s cool fingers slid up his chest at the same moment, tracing the open edges of his robe, nails dragging lightly over skin.
Soraya’s hand found his thigh, squeezing firmly, her thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles that promised far more than they delivered.
The air between them thickened with heat; the faint, expensive scent of their perfumes — something floral and dark from Noor, something warmer and spicier from Soraya — mingling with the raw, masculine edge of his own body and then his Dragon Dominance.
Their bodies pressed in on either side, soft curves brushing against his arms and chest, the promise of what was to come hanging heavy and sinful in the locked room.
