Page 106 of Desperate Desires

Every detail was curated with precision, designed to dazzle and disarm. The Stargazer didn’t just cater to the wealthy. It clearly worshipped them.

For once, I realized suddenly, I wasn’t just a guest of someone from that powerful, exclusive club. I was a ring wearing member.

“I think Mick Jagger stayed here last week when he was touring,” Lucy told us.

“Isn’t he like eighty?” I asked.

“Yeah, and still a hot as hell rock star,” she replied, and everyone giggled.

“He does have them moves,” I said, half-joking.

Because yeah, he was Mick fucking Jagger, and I was pretty sure he must be a vampire or something, because he still had those famous moves.

The hotel was incredible. I had to admit, on my breaks at the hospital I unwound by reading whatever gossip sites were hot this minute.

So yeah, I’d read the articles listing their exclusive clientele that consisted of the uber-rich and infamous, the tastemakers, the moguls, and those whose names alone could stop traffic.

Then, there were the others—those like the Volkovs, who demanded privacy as much as luxury, whose every indulgence was wrapped in an aura of secrecy.

To people like them, like us, I corrected myself, the Stargazer wasn’t a hotel. It was a sanctuary.

A premier destination where billionaires and their playmates, schemers and their secrets, came to hide in plain sight beneath crystal chandeliers and silk-draped lounges.

Here, fortunes were spent without a second thought, reputations were made and ruined over champagne toasts, and the world outside ceased to exist—because once you stepped through those grand doors, you weren’t just staying at the Stargazer.

You belonged to it.

I’d never indulged in this kind of thing. But as the doors to the bridal suite opened, and I stared at the staff holding bottles of champagne and trays of hors d'oeuvres, I felt excitement tingle through me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bottarelli, this is from your husband,” a silver-haired woman said, stepping forward with a tray of mimosas.

“Yes, please.”

“Thank you.”

“Oooh, can I have a virgin one?” Micky asked, and I laughed as she confirmed my earlier suspicions.

“When is baby number two due?”

“July! Shelly, I knew you knew,” she cried, and we hugged it out.

After everyone settled their stuff into their own rooms, we regrouped in mine, and I could not remember a time I had so much fun.

“Okay, the stylists are coming to do our hair. Shelly, I had Marion from your salon come, and he will give you your touch up,” Micky said.

“You got Marion? Ugh, I love you!” I squealed because really, I wouldn’t let anyone else touch my head, and I appreciated Micky for that extra bit of thoughtfulness.

“Actually, Ono insisted. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable, and he didn’t have time to vet everyone on staff here.”

“Oh my God, are you sure he isn’t related to Connor?” Clementine asked.

“Why are you weirdos always letting these men decide for you?” Andrea snorted and shook her head at us.

Micky, Clem and I just looked at each other and I knew it was because we were all thinking the same thing.

When a man had a dick like that—one that worked like a magically propelled jackhammer, who gave you everything you asked for, provided for you like you were the only reason he had for living, gave you more orgasms than you could count, and doted on you—then, yeah, you let him have his quirks.

For Ono, that meant making sure I only used the stylist he’d apparently vetted and approved of.

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