by Stella Gray
“Champagne, miss?”
A smiling waiter gestures with one hand while holding a tray of elegant flutes in the other. I nod and grab one before he realizes that I’m not of age. But he walks away without question, and I figure he couldn’t care less how old I am. He’s paid to pass the alcohol, not worry about who’s drinking it.
The excitement is back as I take a covert sip of the champagne. It bursts full and sweet on my tongue, the effervescence tickling my palate. If this is what afterparties are like, sign me up.
“Don’t tell anyone,” a masculine voice whispers conspiratorially into my ear, the close heat of the man’s mouth and the spice of his cologne sending shivers down my spine, “but they’re serving two-hundred-dollar bottles of Louis Roederer in fake crystal flutes. How gauche.”
I grin and turn toward the source of that sexy voice, only to come face to face with a pair of green eyes, slicked-back dark hair, and a body that’s perfectly made for a tux…or maybe it’s the other way around. I can’t ponder it, though, because I’ve apparently lost my ability to think.
Or breathe.
Luka Zoric flashes his dimples at me as if he’s just spilled a dirty little secret. I’ve never met him, but I know exactly who he is. Everyone in this industry knows who he is. He’s the playboy second son of Konstantin Zoric, owner of KZ Modeling. I’ve seen all the Zorics in the tabloids and on social media more than I want to admit. I follow their pages, of course, and with the face of a god, Luka makes for some nice eye candy when you have idle time to browse.
“Well,” I finally manage. “That’s…a shame.”
Oh, God. Is that the best I could come up with?
“It really is,” he goes on, “considering the host of this thing rakes in fifty-mil a year.”
My eyebrows lift and I take another sip, because I’m not sure what else to do. Suddenly, he’s thrusting one perfectly broad and strong-looking hand my way. And I take it, feeling a frisson of electricity as I slide my palm against his, praying I don’t say anything else too lame.
“Luka Zoric. It’s a pleasure to meet you…” He leaves space for me to introduce myself. My mouth is so dry that I have to take yet another sip of the bubbly before I finally feel like I can offer a genuine smile, instead of one born from awkwardness.
“Brooklyn Moss,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, as if I’m thinking hard. “You know, I think I may have heard of you.”
Oh, so now I’m flirting.
He laughs, open and unaffected, turning him even more impossibly handsome. He drinks from his flute and I do the same, barely realizing mine is almost empty now.
“You looked stunning out there earlier, Brooklyn Moss. Like you were actually having fun. Most of the models put on the sour face when they’re on the catwalk. Not you.”
My chest tightens as I weigh what he just said. A bigwig at KZ Modeling noticed me on the runway! Don’t panic. Do. Not. Panic. “Thank you. To be honest, it was a lot of fun.”
“You’re a natural,” he says smoothly. “I’ve been doing this long enough to spot those who are made for this industry, and those who aren’t. You’re definitely in the first category.”
“Is that so?” I say with a smirk, my body language indicating how confident I already am.
“It is,” Luka says, his sly grin matching my own.
He licks his bottom lip for a fraction of a second. Just enough to make me notice his lips and how perfect they are. Everything about him is perfection. Right down to the cut of his midnight blue tux and the Hermès pocket square expertly tucked near his lapel.
I’m young, but I’m not naïve. I know a line when I hear one. A man like this, especially with a reputation like his, says anything to get pussy. It’s the one thing my parents repeatedly warned me about. So yeah, I know the game. Any woman in this industry knows the game. You learn early which moves to play and which to pass.
Draining my flute, I set it on the tray of a passing waiter and snag another. I can play my hand one of two ways. I can let him seduce me and use it to arm my way into an audition at KZ Modeling—and finally get the chance with them that I’ve been working toward. Or I can keep my dignity and wait for them to notice me for the strength of my work, not who I slept with.
My parents disapprove of my modeling career, and the least I can do for my mama is keep my dignity. Even if I want to climb Luka Zoric like a tree. Even if merely standing next to him is intoxicating.
“Look,” I say, making up my mind. “I know how this works. And I can’t go to bed with you. So if that’s all you’re after, then it’s only fair you know it upfront.” I raise my champagne to him and smile, hoping to take the edge off my rejection.
“Ouch.” He puts an unconvincing hand over his heart, but the glint in his eye tells me that sex is, in fact, exactly what he’s after. “You mistake my intentions, milady.”
“Do I?” I cock an eyebrow, wishing I wasn’t so turned on by this sexy scoundrel.
“Indeed,” he says, and then tips back the last of his champagne. “Just to sate my curiosity though, why can’t you sleep with me?”
“Because I want to get signed by your agency, and I’m planning to audition at the next open call. Sleeping with you before that would only make things messy. Besides, I’m not here to screw my way into a contract. I’m a hard-working professional and I handle myself accordingly.” I lift my chin and gaze fiercely at him.
The left corner of his mouth twitches up right before he catches my eyes. “You’re an honorable woman, Brooklyn Moss. I can respect that.”
With the barest of a nod, he sets his empty flute on a table, turns his back to me, and walks away. My stomach lurches a little as I watch him go. Did I just drop a huge opportunity? I almost want to call him back or hurry after him.
Sex. With Luka Zoric. God. I can’t even begin to imagine what that would be like. If only I could keep my professional aspirations out of it.
Trying to put the encounter behind me, I start to make my way through the crowd. I barely get across the roof when I feel a light touch on my elbow. I turn and find Luka there, his eyes searching my face.
“A word?”
“Sure,” I say with a nod.
He draws me away from the crowd with a hand on my lower back, and I let him lead me, trying to ignore the hot pulse between my legs.
Then his finger is lifting my chin as he stares greedily at me. “Look, since you were honest, I’ll be honest too. I want to fuck you. That alone is a good indicator that you’re KZM material, but since I have a feeling you want to do this the right way, how about a private audition, right now?”
I’m incredibly turned on by him saying he wants to fuck me, but I force myself to focus on the opportunity he’s just offered me. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
There’s something in his eyes that draws me in and steals my rational thought. Minutes later I find myself in his Bugatti, speeding down the highway and back to the event center that held the fashion show. It feels like a dream, or maybe it’s the two glasses of champagne in fake crystal flutes that I consumed. But this whole thing feels as if it’s happening to someone else. He flips on a few lights in the auditorium, then holds my hand while I step up onto the runway…and stand there, waiting for his instructions and trying not to pinch myself to see if this is real.
I’m doubly glad I’m still in the designer dress, because never in my life did I expect to have an immediate audition with my dream agency.
Luka takes a seat right next to the stage and sets his cellphone on his lap, gazing up at me with a serious expression.
“Let’s have you walk to the main stage and then back to me, please.”
I swallow hard, hoping like hell that I don’t wobble in my heels, and then do as he asks. I make a tight spin when I turn back toward him, one hand on my hip, my other arm moving just right as I strut. I clear my mind, stare into the distance, get in the zone. Even with the champagne making my movements a little loose and languid, I know I’m on point. M
y heels are loud in the empty room.
“Good. Good.” He pauses and I hope he can’t hear how hard I’m breathing. “Do one more turn for me right here.”
I turn, knowing full well that he’s getting a front row view of my ass from where he’s sitting, but too caught up in the audition to worry about it. He snaps a picture. “That’s perfect. How about both hands on your hips?”
I do as he asks, and he takes more pictures. As he waves me back down the runway, I get little direction, so I help him out—pausing at intervals for photos and flashing my subtly amused half-smile, my sultry scowl, my look of otherworldly distraction. I’ve been doing this for years, and I have all my looks down pat.
Even so, I’m getting the impression that he’s not well-versed in auditions. At least, I’ve never been bumbled through one quite like this before. When I stop before him again, he runs a hand through his hair and looks up at me.
There’s a pause that makes me nervous. Is this real, or was he simply baiting me to get what he wants?
“Do you want my vitals?” I suggest. When he hesitates, I clarify, “My measurements.”
His face lights up. “I do. Yes.”
I give them to him as he types the numbers into his phone. “Anything else you want to know? My resume, where I live?”
He circles a hand in the air. “All of it. Yes. Of course.”
I give him the rundown and cross my arms as I speak. My hopes are getting dashed by the second—it’s obvious I know more about the business than he does, and that says a lot, considering that he’s a Zoric. But then he comes up on the stage and takes my hands in his, a confident smile robbing my breath. His cologne smells amazing and I imagine myself pressed up against that hard chest, running my hands inside his tux.
“Brooklyn Moss, there is no doubt in my mind—everyone is going to know your face. And your name. If you sign an exclusive contract with KZM, I’ll make your career.” His voice is strong and even and he sounds sincere. “I’m not just saying that to get in your pants, either.”
Holy shit, he’s giving me a contract! I touch his chest, lay my palm flat against it as if I’m compelled. “So you’re saying you don’t want to get into my pants?” I say.
He grips my wrist gently and my body breaks out in shivers. “Oh no, I definitely want to have sex with you. But that’s absolutely beside the point.”
“Well then, Luka Zoric,” I say, our eyes locking. “I think you’d better take me home.”
Brooklyn
Chapter 3
Three Years Ago
Luka takes me to his million-dollar penthouse in River North and all I can think of is how nervous I am.
I’m no innocent, but the truth is, I’ve never had a man of his prestige and stature interested in me. Sure, I attract men. Some older, some wealthy. Some young and dirt poor. But I’ve never felt such an enigmatic pull to any man the way I do to Luka Zoric. Maybe it’s because he’s going to launch my career—finally! Maybe it’s because he’s pure masculine perfection, or because of the way he’s had my pulse racing since the very first words that came out of his mouth. I don’t know. All I know for sure is, I don’t want to overthink this or talk myself out of it.
I want this. Even though I’ve never gone to bed with a man I’ve just met, and certainly not after I’ve been drinking. There’s no denying the sparks flying between us, the way he can’t keep his hands off me, how wet I am thanks to him squeezing my thigh the whole drive here.
I barely get a decent glance at the upscale building before he zings the car into his private underground garage. Lights pop on as we enter, illuminating a pristine space with a polished concrete floor and stark white walls, three bays housing three different candy-colored sports cars. I’m awed for about two seconds before he whisks me through a door and into an elevator.
Luka spins me as the elevator begins to rise, pushing me against the mirrored wall and taking my lips with his. He’s a little rough with me, and I like it. I gasp into his mouth as he fists my hair, tugging and then relaxing, over and over as he kisses me, sending tingles from my scalp to my toes. I’ve never had my hair pulled like this before, and the line between pleasure and pain has me breathless. I slide my hands across his delicious pecs as he meshes his mouth perfectly to mine, hungrier than before, and I can feel my nipples going hard and achy against the fabric of my dress. I reach for his belt, wondering how much longer we’ll be in this elevator, my mouth already watering in anticipation, but then he’s pulling away from me as the car comes to a stop.
A whimper escapes my throat, making Luka laugh.
“There’s no need to rush, Brooklyn,” he says. “We have all night.”
He taps a code on the keypad and the doors open to reveal a short hallway that spills into an airy room with a wall made of windows overlooking the city. It takes me a second to realize that he has an elevator opening directly into a hallway in his home.
His own elevator. Silly, I know. I’m sure there’s much, much more to wealth like this.
“Welcome to my home.”
He unbuttons his tux jacket and leads the way. My mouth drops as I take in the space. It’s magnificent and so far beyond any luxury I could’ve imagined. Reclaimed wood floors contrast beautifully with stark white walls, and the black casings and trim of the expansive windows. Equally dark crown molding graces where walls meet ceiling, and a massive cast iron light fixture hangs from the center of the room, giving off a soft white glow. To the left, an open kitchen hints at expanses of polished granite and fixtures of modern stainless steel. But I don’t get that far. Luka reaches for my purse and shawl and sets them on the side of the L-shaped black leather couch in the center of the room.
Then he rests a hand against my lower back and walks me over to the view.
“What do you think?”
I think that I want to frame up some amazing shots of the city lights to share with my Insta followers. It’s a passing thought as I peer out the window at the beautiful illumination below. The lights are amazing against the night sky.
“I think you’re a lucky man to have a view like this. I’ve never seen Chicago at night from so high up before. It’s magic.”
His fingers trail over my shoulder to the nape of my neck, where he moves my long hair aside to bare the skin. He’s smiling, his eyes intensely focused as he holds my gaze. “I definitely could not imagine a better view.”
My cheeks warm and I look away as a rush goes through me. This is happening so fast. He seems to sense my anxiety as he lightly takes my hand. “How about a tour?”
“I’d love one.”
He starts by opening a set of French doors that lead to a double balcony, one a few steps below, one slightly higher and up a staircase. A variety of succulents grow in glazed pots and an infinity waterfall appears to spill from the roof, splashing into a small pool that’s maybe large enough for two or three people.
“Can you swim in that?” I ask.
“It isn’t very deep, but you’re welcome to try,” he says teasingly. “No suit required.”
“I’ll have to take you up on that next time,” I laugh.
I take his arm. Honestly, if he had just told me to strip and get in, I would have. Just like that. Instead, we head back inside where he shows me a second lounge room, a little smaller than the main living room. It boasts a flagstone wall with a rectangular fireplace cut in the center, with cream-colored recliners, a carved Balinese coffee table, and a leather sofa arranged around it. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line two walls, and a mini bar is tucked into the back.
“After a dip in the pool, I find there’s nothing better than a sherry by the fire,” he says. “Naked, of course.”
Even though I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me now, I can’t help but shiver at the mental image I’m getting. Luka Zoric. Naked by the fire. Of course.
We turn down a hall and come up to the backside of the kitchen. Just as I suspected, it’s completely professional, decked to the hil
t with high-end everything. Dark cabinets offset the shine of the stainless steel. A large granite island in the middle has a sink on one end, and chairs around one side. There’s even a small electric fireplace peeking out from the far wall near the breakfast nook. Opposite is another recessed area with a Murano glass chandelier, long formal dining table, and chairs to seat ten.
I run my hand along the smooth surface of the granite, leaning against the island.
“Do you entertain a lot?”
Luka watches me run my fingers over the polished stone. “Not really. I prefer to keep things pretty quiet around here.”
I grin. “Makes sense. You don’t strike me as the kind who does a lot of family dinners.”
A sound comes out of him, a cross between a scoff and a laugh. He looks at the long table and shrugs. “Definitely not. I didn’t really grow up with them. My dad wasn’t around much.”
He looks away, and my heart immediately goes out to him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Luka grins, back to the smooth-talking sex-god persona. “It was for the best.”
God, I would so love to photograph this penthouse. How does it feel to be so accustomed to having luxury like this, that it doesn’t faze you anymore?
“Do you get lonely?” I ask.
He laughs. “No. I’m out and around people all the time. Kinda comes with the Zoric territory. This place is my sanctuary.”
“I get it,” I say with a nod. “But if this was my place, I definitely wouldn’t let it sit empty all the time. I’d want to share it—have people over as much as possible. It’d be so nice to have my friends and family all together in a space like this. I mean, look at this gorgeous table. It’s a shame you don’t use it.”
I walk over to the long table, admiring the gleam of the wood.
When I turn around, he steps into me, our hips touching. Our eyes lock and his hands slide over my bare shoulders and up my neck to cup my face between them. My heart is beating fast in my chest, the tabletop cutting into the back of my thighs.
