The next twenty minutes presents a parade of women whose beauty is only rivaled by the gorgeous clothes they wear. I may not know much about fashion, but I know these clothes are art, and I feel pride that my girl was such a crucial part of this masterpiece. Celebrities, not just critics and fashion insiders, stuff each row. I spot Bristol James, Grip’s wife, a few seats down. We wave briefly, but Bristol returns her attention to the clothes right away.

It’s all over in twenty minutes like Lotus promised, and JP emerges from behind the curtain, joined by all the models, and struts to the end of the catwalk, waving and receiving the adulation the collection deserves. The crowd is on its feet. I’m scouring the scene for any sign of Lotus, but she’s probably backstage.

As a spokesperson for the line, I have a pass, which I use as soon as the show concludes and people start dispersing. Lotus said the Fashion Week schedule is brutal. Back-to-back shows scheduled in venues all over the city have most critics, editors, fashion bloggers, and attendees doing their damnedest to get from one to the next on time.

Among the Amazons, some of whom almost look me in the eye wearing their high heels, it’s hard to find my little Lotus. When I spot her, she’s hugging JP and wearing midnight blue skinny velvet pants that mold to every line of her svelte figure. The shirt, if it can be called that, is ivory-colored silk. It’s not much more than a bra with long sleeves clinging to her arms and some kind of crystals pouring from the wrists and over her hands. A hint of dark nipples shows through the fragile shells cupping her breasts, and her stomach is bare, a lotus flower the only interruption of her smooth skin. She turns to answer someone, and I gulp. Her ass in those tiny pants is criminal. God, I want to lick that zipper climbing her spine. I should be used to this—how parts of me go painfully hard and other parts of me go unbelievably soft at the sight of her—but I’m not. I half-hope I’ll never get used to it.

Maybe she feels my eyes on her. I wouldn’t put it past her. There is something unique, different about Lotus. She senses things, feels things I’m not always in tune to. She searches until she finds me.

“Kenan!” she squeals, and quickly picks her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd to reach me. She’s wearing more makeup than usual, and a nose ring, a tiny gold hoop encircling the keen curve of her nostril. As soon as she’s close enough, I bend my knees, wrap my arms around her, and with my elbows locked under her ass, pull her up to me.

“I’m so proud of you, Button,” I whisper through that cloud of platinum curls.

She stiffens in my arms, pulls back to peer into my face. Her smile is blinding, an amalgamation of joy and fulfillment. “You know it’s not my line, right?” she teases, resting an elbow on my shoulder and tracing my eyebrows, my cheekbone with one neat nail.

“I know everything you’ve done,” I insist. “And I know nothing about fashion, but the show was fantastic.” I kiss the warm line of her throat. “You’re fantastic.”

She dips her head until our eyes meet, and the smile fades from her eyes, from her lips. She lays her forehead against mine. “I want to spend the night with you, Kenan.”

My heartbeat trebles behind my breastbone and I swallow my eagerness.

Calm your cock and lower your expectations.

We haven’t had sex and I’ll wait a year, two, however long it takes for her to feel comfortable. She’s spent the night several times, and it’s always hard to stop, but I do. For her, I always will until she says we don’t have to. So when she says she wants to spend the night, my cock and I should know by now it doesn’t mean . . .

“Sure.” I set her on the floor. “You mentioned an after-party—”

“I’m not going,” she cuts in, her eyes affixed to my face. “I already told JP.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “If you want to grab something to eat—”

“I don’t.” She takes my hand and peers up at me in the dimness of backstage. Models, critics, celebrities, JPL staff all mingle around us, but for me, we’re the only two people here. “I want to go to your apartment, and I want to spend the night. Kenan, I’m ready.”

“Lotus, baby, you don’t have to—”

“Kenan!” JP shouts near my ear.

Lotus and I don’t break our stare immediately, but linger on each other for a few seconds before we look to her boss. He’s practically vibrating with triumph, and I get it. I’m happy for him, but right now, I need to figure out what Lotus means. What she’s saying—if it’s what I think she’s saying. If it is, we’re out of here as soon as possible.

“Did you enjoy the show, mon ami?” he asks me.

“Yeah, it was great.” I pull Lotus into my side, caressing the smooth skin of her back. “Everyone seemed to love it.”

“Oui!” His obvious pleasure coaxes a smile from me. “And Lotus, you’re sure you don’t want to come with me to the after-party? Everyone will be there. All the industry giants.”

Lotus snuggles more deeply into my side with a husky chuckle. “After all the hours I’ve put in the last month,” she says, sounding tired but happy, “there’s only one giant I want to see.”

My smile stretches so damn wide it hurts. I can’t even hide it, what she means to me and how I want her. Now that Simone knows, I don’t give a damn who sees us together. People aren’t generally interested in my life except when Bridget makes a mess of it.

“Well, I like to take some credit for this,” JP drawls, his French accent thickening and his eyes gleaming, “since it was my button that brought you together.”

“I think I would have found a way with or without the button.” I bend to kiss the top of Lotus’s head. “But thanks for the help.”

“De rien.” He flicks his head toward a side exit. “Go on and get out of here then, lovebirds.”

“You’re sure?” Lotus asks, her fingers tightening at my waist.

“We’ll start again soon enough,” he reminds her. “So go before I remember that I can barely function when you are not with me at these awful parties.”

For someone so small, Lotus manages to drag a man twice her size through a crowd with seemingly little difficulty. As soon as the door opens, September sunlight pours into the backstage area. Lotus draws a deep breath before stepping outside a little ahead of me.

“Freedom,” she says, releasing an extended breath. “It’s over.”

A wry chuckle unwinds from her and is quickly gobbled up in the squawk of horns and New York’s urban cacophony. She glances back at me over slumping shoulders, the look filled with weariness and anticipation.

“Take me home, Kenan.”

32

Lotus

This is what I wanted. He is what I wanted.

To be here with the man leaning against his apartment door is what I’ve wanted for days, weeks. Kenan didn’t even notice JP practically salivating over him in the three-piece suit from the JPL Men line, but I did. The perfectly groomed shadow darkening his granite jawline. The impossibly wide horizon of shoulders straining the tailored fabric and narrowing to slim hips, and the powerful length of his legs. There’s an indolence about him, but it’s deceptive. The air pulses with want—a patiently-checked desire I’m finally ready to indulge.

I’m so proud of you, Button.

Not you look beautiful, which would have been nice, too, but I’m so proud of you.

The perfect thing to say to the girl whose one parent spent so much time changing and molding her, pressing out her crinkles and straightening her waves, but was never satisfied.

I’m proud of you.

“I’d like to talk first,” I say, sitting on the living room couch and slipping off my shoes.

“First?” He pushes off the door, stalks to the couch, and sits in the opposite corner, leaving a few feet between us.

“Yeah, first.” I smile despite the churning in my stomach. “Before we make love.”

“You know I’d wait months, years,” he says, eyes fastened to the large hands on his knees. “I want you badly, Lotus. I think you know that, but I’ll wait as long as you need. You mean that much to me.”

His words, perfectly timed, placed, spoken, settle me, and the story comes pouring out. “I told you before there were things I needed to share with you.”

“Yeah.” He glances up and that flick of lashes is the only detectable movement. He’s gone completely still, and alertness sharpens his stare.

“I’m ready to . . .” I swallow the nervousness threatening my words. “To tell you why I needed to wait and what happened.”

A muscles ticks in his cheek. “You’re going to tell me someone hurt you,” he states, not asks.

Remembering his response to Chase, I think this might be nearly as difficult for him as it is for me. I shift on the couch until I’m beside him and take his hand between mine, kissing his knuckle. “Yeah, I need to tell you.”

He nods and pulls me closer until my head is on his chest and his chin rests in my hair.

“I don’t want to do details tonight,” I say softly. “I shared the whole story, detail by painful detail, with my support group last week, and—”

“Support group?” he asks.

“You may not have noticed because it’s only for an hour every Thursday, but I’ve been attending a support group for . . . for, um, childhood sexual abuse survivors.”

His massive chest swells under my cheek with a lengthy inhale. The heartbeat in my ear surges, accelerates, thuds.

“Okay,” he says simply.

“My mother was never happy with me.” I shake my head against him. “I’m not really dark, but compared to the rest of my family I was. My hair was all wrong.”

“Your hair?” He runs a hand over the mass of it, kissing the crown. “What did she think was wrong with your hair?”