The ride to the Broadmoor seems like hours instead of a mere 15 minutes. I let valet take my little hatchback and pull my coat tightly around me as I make my way to the Lakeside building of the resort. My anxious stride takes me to the elevator and to my dismay it’s occupied by a man and woman who are passionately kissing. I think they are going to step off, being that it’s the ground floor but they stay on and squeeze their panting bodies into a corner. I try to stay towards the front to give them privacy but I can’t help but catch their hushed conversation.
“How long do we have until you have to go back to her?” the woman whines. She sounds desperate and saddened at the prospect of losing her lover.
“A couple hours. Whitney is starting to really get suspicious.” It sounds like the man is planting kisses on his forlorn companion.
“You said you would leave her last week. What happened? You said we would be together.”
“Look, Rebecca, it’s just not that easy. You know I love you. It’s just complicated. She will take everything if I’m not careful. Just give me more time.”
I bite my lip in an attempt to stifle a snicker. That man is not leaving his wife. He’s scum, and I fight the urge to turn around and tell him and his mistress so. The memory of Dorian’s late night narrative enters my mind. He did say that there’s a man and woman here having an affair and that he would never leave his wife. Lucky guess, Dorian.
I stow away the information I’ve gained on the heated elevator ride, and step off eagerly when I reach the top floor. Only a few yards separate me from him at this point. Finally I’ll be free from this hell I’ve been experiencing for the past few days. I know that he is the cure. All I need is right behind that door.
I finger comb my long, dark hair, take a deep breath and undo the waist tie of my long coat before knocking. Seconds tick by and there is no answer. No sound from the other side of the door. Shit. I knock again, this time a bit harder. Still no activity or noise. Shit! I begin to panic, my chest rising and falling dramatically with my rapid breaths. I lift my fist to knock one last time before retreating back to my car humiliated and frustrated when the door suddenly opens, startling me.
Dorian stands before me wearing a stoic expression, his bare arms glistening with tiny droplets of water. He’s wearing only a low-hanging pair of grey sweatpants, a white tank top, and nothing else. It’s amazing how such pedestrian attire can look so damn good draped on his luscious body. His dark hair is damp, reminding me of slick black oil. I am momentarily stunned by his disheveled yet sumptuous appearance and nearly forget my own plan of action. I tear my eyes away long enough to open my long trench coat, exposing the see-through chemise and thong. I’m wearing my spangled platform heels accompanied by silk black thigh-high stockings and soft ringlets cascade down my back and shoulders. I’ve applied more eye liner and mascara than I’m used to wearing and my lips are perfectly glossed and pouty. I place my hands on my hips for added effect and take in Dorian’s hungry, appreciative expression.
“Get in here. Now,” Dorian growls between gritted teeth before grabbing me by the arm and pulling me inside his suite.
He slams the door behind him. For a second I think he’s angry at my brazen display until his firm, eager lips find mine. His kiss is deep and desperate, like he has just sought nourishment after days of famine. He’s missed me. Just like I’ve missed him.
Dorian reluctantly breaks our impassioned lip-lock and leads me to the living room. He leaves me in front of the couch and goes over to the bar, pouring amber liquor into two crystal glasses. He takes a sip from one of the glasses and then walks over and hands it to me. I take a small sip and let the silky liquid make its way down my parched throat. It doesn’t burn as bad this time and I welcome its warmth after being outside nearly naked. Dorian picks up a small remote and presses a button. Racy, provocative music resounds through an unseen sound system, filling the dimly lit room with hypnotic melodies. I instantly raise my eyebrows in recognizance.
“Interesting choice in music. I never would have pegged you as a Prince fan,” I remark.
Dorian smirks. “You know of him,” he observes. “I’m surprised. A bit before your time.”
“Morgan is obsessed with him. She’s made me watch Purple Rain with her at least twenty times.” I take a sip of my liquor and stifle a gasp at the burn sliding down my chest. Then I turn to Dorian with a questioning narrow of my hazel eyes. “Uh, before your time, too.”
Dorian nearly snorts with amusement then shakes his head. “I told you, Gabriella. I listen to whatever moves me. And it is very fitting for what I have planned for you.”