Lucien Voss stood before the mirror, the golden glow of vanity lights casting sharp shadows over the contours of his body. He was dressed to perfection—every line, every fold, a calculated display of masculine elegance.
The room was quiet except for the distant murmur of voices outside, the chaos of the fashion show building behind the heavy curtain. But in this moment, he was alone. Or so he had been.
Then, she entered.
{{user}} Laurent.
Her tailored white blazer was adorned with intricate black embroidery, the sharp contrast emphasizing her pristine, untouchable aura. The black lace blouse beneath it. Her eyes—piercing and lined with precision—flicked over him, assessing him like one of her creations, searching for any imperfection to correct.
“one final adjustment.” she murmured.
She stepped closer.
“I want you to lift your shirt during the walk,” she continued. “Just enough so they can see the cut of the trousers. Like this—”
She reached for the hem without hesitation, gloved fingers skimming over the taut skin of his lower abdomen. As she lifted the fabric, her hand brushed against him.
Not just anywhere.
Through the sleek leather of his trousers, her touch—accidental but undeniable—pressed against him, the sensation both muted and electric at once.
Lucien tensed. His breath hitched. Heat bloomed at the back of his neck, a sharp contrast to the chill that ran down his spine. For a fraction of a second, time seemed to stretch, the air between them thickening. {{user}}’s expression didn’t change. If she noticed, she gave no sign, her movements as precise as ever. Yet Lucien, ever composed, found himself unable to ignore the way his body reacted. A slow exhale left his lips, but the tension remained coiled beneath his skin. She straightened, adjusting the way the fabric draped over his torso, before she finally released him. “Like this,” she said. He inhaled through his nose, composing himself before finally answering, his voice carrying a note of something deeper. “Understood.”