The Ruin (Convenience Book 3)

by Stella Gray

  “I really was convinced you had it in the bag. I still don’t know what went wrong. Monica isn’t what they said they were looking for, and I sure as hell don’t think she’s a better choice than you. Not by far. I’m sorry I didn’t do enough, or say the right things, or—”

  “It wasn’t just about losing the campaign,” I interrupt. “I’ve been rejected plenty of times, and normally I just roll with it. But do you have any idea what it was like having you lead me on for weeks thinking I had the gig, only to get crushed in front of hundreds of industry people at the gala? That night was like a fairy tale for me.” My voice cracks with emotion, and I have to take a breath. “But after you made that announcement I just felt so…naïve, and fucked with, and—and publicly humiliated. And like a complete failure. Like how stupid could I be, thinking I’d actually get to work with Maxilene? Thinking all my dreams were going to come true just because you said they would? God.”

  My breath is hitching in my chest, and my eyes are stinging. Luka puts his hands on my shoulders, looking down at me with a gentle gaze I barely recognize.

  “You are,” he says softly, “an incredible, strong, insanely beautiful woman. You have the drive and the talent to achieve all your dreams, and even if you don’t succeed at everything you put your heart into, you’ll never be a failure. You just have to keep getting up when you fall.

  “But I know you already know this, because it’s what’s kept you going all those years before I even came along. So don’t sell yourself short. If you ask me, Maxilene doesn’t deserve you. I wouldn’t have gotten your hopes up just to be cruel. I believed in you. I still do.”

  Choked up with emotion, I clear my throat. “Thanks,” I whisper.

  Luka looks like he wants to say more, but instead he releases my shoulders and backs up a few steps. “Sleep well,” he says, heading down the hall with Mr. Kibbles following.

  Feeling lighter—hopeful—I float back to my room and climb into bed, replaying Luka’s words in my mind. Somewhere deep down, I know he isn’t lying. Maybe he wasn’t the man I thought he was after all. Maybe I haven’t given him enough of a chance. That stops now.

  Because if everything he just told me is true, then there’s a lot more between us than I’d been willing to acknowledge. And as for our relationship?

  It just might be worth saving.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 8

  The next day comes too fast, and before I know it I’m standing beside Luka at the top of the empty runway that I’ll be walking down in just a few short hours. It’s U-shaped, with stadium seating on either side and an additional double row of chairs arranged back-to-back in the center for the heaviest hitting VIPs. Warm, even light spills down from the truss overhead, illuminating the white flooring of the U, while soft black fabric drapes the chairs and the walls.

  Adding to the glitz are glittering black disco balls, suspended from the ceiling along with strings of fairy lights. It’s so elegant, you can’t even tell we’re in a converted Central Street warehouse in north Chicago. Everything sparkles against the black and I have to snap a quick photo and upload it to IG, even though I’m starting to hyperventilate a little.

  “Oh my God, why did I agree to this?” I can hear the tremble in my voice.

  “You can do it, and you will,” Luka tells me. “Besides, this should be old hat for you.”

  “That’s exactly the problem! I haven’t done this in forever,” I say, pulse kicking.

  Clasping my hands in front of me, I take a deep breath and will the butterflies inside to settle down. There’s plenty of time before the show starts, but I’m seriously doubting my ability to hold my nerves in check until then. I might need a drink to calm down. Maybe two.

  Not really, though. I know plenty of models who like to work under the influence, and a few who can’t even show up to a gig without it, but I’ve never been one of them.

  The thing about walking in a show is, it’s live. Hundreds of people are watching, and even though they’re there to see the clothes, one step out of line and every pair of eyes in the entire venue is on you—and God forbid you trip. I knew a model once who fell backwards onto her ass at a show in Beijing, and she never walked a runway again. Shooting for print is a piece of cake in comparison. Only the best photos are ever seen by the public. You lose your balance, or your look isn’t perfect, and the photo gets deleted in a millisecond. On the runway, cameras are flashing so fast from every angle that any misstep will be immortalized for all eternity.

  No pressure or anything. It’s just the hugest gig I’ve ever booked. No big deal.

  “Is it too late to back out?” I ask desperately. “I’m out of practice.”

  “That’s exactly why we’re here early,” Luka soothes. “Now show me your strut.”

  With that, he gives me a playful smack on the ass, and I can’t help letting out a nervous laugh. I’m lucky I have a husband with the kind of influence to make this practice run possible.

  Clearing my mind, I focus on a point of light at the far end of the venue and try to get in the zone, silently reminding myself that this’ll be just like my early days. I used to walk with a Mona Lisa smile on my face, but that was because I was so gleeful to be modeling professionally that I was trying to hold back a grin the entire time. Now, though? All I feel is nerves.

  After a few laps around the runway, Luka waves me back over.

  “How was that?” I ask, panting a little.

  “You’re beautiful,” he answers, avoiding the question—which tells me all I need to know. I’m stiff and my anxiety is showing; I can feel it and Luka can obviously see it.

  “I just need more time,” I say, but before I can skitter off, he tugs me closer.

  “Wait, I meant to show you this. Here.”

  He pulls up an email on his phone and hands it to me. I glance at the screen, skimming the words but not really processing them. I’m too nervous.

  “What do you think?”

  “Looks great,” I say distractedly, holding the phone out to him.

  Luka clears his throat with an amused smile. “Did you even read the email? They’d like an answer before end-of-day.”

  “Oh.” I look at the email again. It’s an offer for a job modeling an upcoming line of winter coats and accessories for a high-end department store. “Yeah. Sounds fine to me.”

  I hand his phone back, a little thrown. This is the first time Luka has consulted me about a gig. Usually I pass my contracts over to him for approval and co-signature, or if he gets an offer directly he’ll either accept or pass on my behalf and then catch me up later. The fact that he’s asking for my input in advance makes me feel like we’re a united front. A team.

  The other thing I’ve noticed is that, just like the early days of our relationship, Luka has been more involved with my shoots than he is with the other models’. But he’s not being possessive and controlling like before—he’s just observing and occasionally offering support. If it weren’t for the way we ignore each other at home, I’d almost think he wanted to spend more time with me. I don’t know whether to be elated or confused. It would be a lot easier to pretend my way through this marriage if I knew we were both pretending…but after our talk last night, I’m not sure Luka is pretending. And I know my feelings for him are real, and always have been, whether I want them to be or not.

  He types on his phone and then slips it into his pocket. “Done and done. Why don’t you give it another go? This time in heels. And try to relax if you can. This should be fun.”

  “Maybe you should put the heels on and take a turn out there,” I grumble. I slip out of my flats and into the stilettos he insisted I bring for practice, but inside I’m grateful for all of this.

  Luka takes a seat down in the VIP section and watches as I walk the length of the runway again, more focused this time as I try to memorize the feel of the flooring, the number of steps I’ll need to take before I pause and turn. As my heels clip, clip, clip across the floor
, I can’t help thinking back to the last time I gave Luka a private runway show. It had been just like this, only me and him. His eyes riveted on me, drinking me in with open desire. It had felt like I moved only for him then, like my walk was some kind of foreplay. And later that night, back at his place…I shiver at the memory, my pussy clenching involuntarily.

  Shaking off the sexy flashback, I try to concentrate. On my posture, my form. My stride. Influential people will be watching me up here tonight and I want to be perfect. But the look of appreciation on my husband’s face doesn’t hurt, either.

  “Nice.” Luka leans forward in his seat a little as I pass by him. “More sass, Brooklyn.”

  More sass. I almost roll my eyes, but shoot him a withering glare instead.

  “That’s more like it,” Luka says appreciatively. “You’re going to be in a pantsuit first, harsh eye makeup, 80s style, and then some kind of plastic wrap dress after that.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Really, a dress made of plastic wrap? Is it see-through?”

  Stopping before him, hand on my hip, I practice a spin on my heel.

  He grins. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

  His eyes rake over my body, but I force myself to keep walking. I’m not sure what’s going to get to me more this evening—my nerves, or the sexual tension building with Luka.

  “There. Just like that. Your lines are perfect.”

  I warm under his praise, feeling myself finally start to slip into my comfort zone.

  “You ready to take a break?” He holds out a hand to help me down the stairs. “Damn, Brooklyn, your hands are ice cold. And you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” But as I look up at him and see how concerned he is, how he’s clasping my cold hands between his to warm them up, I realize I feel safe enough to admit my insecurities about the show.

  It’s not just nerves, and it’s not just that I haven’t walked a runway in a while.

  “What if—what if I really don’t belong here?” I whisper. “After losing that Maxilene job, I just…feel even more like I’m not good enough. Like I can’t actually hope to make this my career. I know you think differently, but I honestly don’t know if I can do this. And don’t just say it’ll be fine, or that it’s nonsense. This feels real to me.”

  He nods, gazing at me thoughtfully, and I can tell he’s really considering my words. “If you need a little help feeling comfortable, I might have a solution.” He smiles.

  “Please don’t tell me to imagine everyone in the audience naked.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” The wickedness in his smile reaches his eyes. “I was actually going to tell you to get naked. I’ve seen how confidently you strut wearing nothing—if you can remember how to do that, just imagine how well you can strut with clothes on.”

  Heat pulses through my body, from my cheeks to my low belly, aching between my legs.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” I ask, even though I already know.

  He pushes me back against the raised runway, his fingers finding the back zipper for my skirt. Pushing it down, he growls appreciatively when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear.

  “I’m going to suck you off right here,” he says, running his warm hands up my bare ass.

  “Mmm.” I’m instantly wet. I tilt my head back and let out a sigh, shivering as the air conditioning chills my bare skin. Then I lift up my arms so he can pull my blouse over my head.

  Cupping my breasts through the lace of my bra, he pulls me in for a hard kiss. I nearly melt from the feel of his demanding lips on mine and the hot streak of his tongue as it dances inside my mouth. My nipples perk hard, tingling under his touch, and my pussy starts to throb. I’ve craved his touch for so long, and I want to be completely consumed by him.

  Suddenly Luka breaks the kiss and lifts me onto the runway, pulling my hips toward him and my legs over his shoulders. Bracing myself on my forearms, I lean back. His eyes lock on mine, and he licks his lips. He knows what I need. He always knows what I need.

  Spreading me apart with his fingers, he dives in, lapping me in long, wet strokes from ass to clit with no-nonsense intention. I gasp at the sensations washing over me in waves. He’s relentless, determined to make me come hard and fast. Exactly what I need to clear my head.

  Biting my lip to muffle a cry, I start to ride his face, urging him on with little moans as he feasts on me. We find a rhythm, alternating between me thrusting against the flat of his tongue and him plunging it inside me, his thumb stroking my clit softly all the while.

  “Oh God,” I pant, steadying myself as the pleasure twists through me so strong and electric I can barely keep from stabbing my heels into Luka’s back. If my husband has learned anything over the past few months of our marriage, it’s how to get me off with his tongue.

  The pressure builds, and builds, and I grind my soaking wet pussy against his mouth, more and more demanding. I could come right now, easy as anything. But not yet. I want more.

  “I want you,” I tell him. “I want your cock in my mouth, I want to taste you. Come here.”

  I don’t have to tell him twice. He lifts my legs back onto the runway and then climbs up beside me. I reach for his zipper, but he’s already got it down. His cock springs free, thick and hard. The tip glistens as I take him in my hand, my mouth already watering. Moving onto his side, Luka grabs my hips and pulls my pussy back toward his mouth, his tongue resuming its work just as I take the head of his cock in my mouth. His taste explodes on my palate, so familiar and addicting that I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without it.

  Sucking him in deeper, I feel the tip of his cock jut against the back of my throat as he thrusts. Groaning, he licks and sucks me faster, working me with his tongue until I can’t take it.

  “I’m going to come,” I tell him breathlessly, before taking him into my mouth again.

  His cock swells as I bob my head back and forth, sucking on the fat head and rolling my tongue around it, moaning louder as I feel myself start to crest the wave. He pulls back from me just enough to emit the sexiest groan I’ve ever heard, and then he’s tongue-fucking me again, harder, faster, hotter. Finally letting go, I come in a rush, the orgasm crashing through me. I gasp around his cock, sucking him as hard as I can until he explodes down the back of my throat. I swallow his hot release, savoring every drop as the wave of my own climax slowly recedes.

  I’m panting as we roll away from each other, goosebumps breaking out all over me as the cool air hits my damp skin. Luka climbs over me, pressing his lips to mine over and over until we’re both smiling.

  “How are those nerves doing?” he asks, finally standing and getting dressed.

  I smile. “What nerves? It’s my legs I have to worry about now. I can barely stand.”

  He laughs and jumps back to the floor beneath the runway, picking up my clothes and passing them up to me. I dress as my body hums softly with the afterglow of pleasure.

  “Just imagine us together when you’re walking tonight,” he says. “Any time you get nervous, remember me making you come. You’ll forget everything else. I promise.”

  I huff playfully. I should tell him how conceited that statement is. But he’s not wrong, and he knows it. I won’t be able to set foot onto this walkway tonight without my brain immediately flooding with the memory of what we just did. How good it felt. How good I felt.

  “I’ll see you after the show.”

  Tossing him a wink, I head toward the back, where I’ll soon be custom fitted for my Elia Mertins pantsuit and dress.

  It’s time to make my comeback.

  Brooklyn

  Chapter 9

  Last night was like a dream.

  Waking up today, I can’t really believe the show went as perfectly as I remember—so the first thing I do is grab my phone, bypassing the thirty-seven congratulatory text messages waiting for me (most of which are likely from Mateo), and scroll through my social media apps, checking t
o see what people have been posting about the Elia Mertins show.

  The love is rolling in. And it’s not all just “EM’s joyful aesthetic” or “the irreverent crossroads of high and low culture” or even “her cheeky reinterpretation of the wrap dress.” People are actually commenting on the models Elia handpicked for the collection as fashion muses, and how some of us looked like we were having as much fun as the audience was.

  And the picture getting the most likes, shares, and reposts?

  It’s a shot of me and Elia at the end of the show, gold confetti raining down around us, me in the show’s signature piece—the candy wrapper-printed wrap dress that everyone can’t stop talking about—and Elia in her signature horn-rim glasses and a white suit hand painted all over with graffiti. My head is tilted back in a throaty laugh, Elia’s brilliant smile flashing against her dark skin, and her arm is tucked around my waist. We look like we’re having a total blast.

  I let out a happy squeal and stretch luxuriously in my bed, taking a few moments to close my eyes and just bask in the warm glow of the late morning sun coming in through the windows.

  It hasn’t escaped me that Luka made this all possible. He booked the show for me, soothed my anxiety, gave me a boost beforehand, and then let me soak up all the limelight afterward. In fact, I was even approached backstage by two other up-and-coming designers, asking who repped me. A very good sign that more work is coming my way soon.

  My career is finally back on track. And best of all? My husband is taking care of me like he never has before, putting in the kind of effort I’ve been wishing for since we agreed to enter into this partnership together.

  I smile as his image pops into my mind. We’d talked excitedly about the show on the way home. He’d held the door for me. Carried my bag. Tasked himself with taking Mr. Kibbles out for a quick walk. Luka was a perfect gentleman. For the past few days I’ve been catching little hints that he might be trying to work on our marriage, but after last night? I’m convinced that I’m right. And I’m ready to save this relationship, too. Ready to start trying again.