Page 21 of You Rock My World
“You’re uncharted, you’re the edge of the earth,
A compass spinning, still finding its north.
You’re the gravity I didn’t know I’d feel,
Pulling me back to something real.
“Uncharted, untamed, undefined,
But somehow, you’re the place I call mine.”
She’s asleep before I reach the second verse of “Call It Mine.”
13
JOSIE
September—Present Time
I have the entire weekend to cool off, but my first official assignment tailing Dorian on Monday is a kick to the groin.
He’s doing a photoshoot for an underwear commercial. And it’s not subtle. I’m trapped supervising in an airy, industrial loft with exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and strategically channeled beams of light streaming through the windows—great for taking photos, terrible for my mental health.
Dorian is wearing next to nothing, with only white boxer briefs on. He’s sprawled over a bed with artfully rumpled sheets, one-upping the sexy dreams I had over the past several months. Too much of his skin is on display, a lot of it covered in indecently sexy tattoos. The ink snakes around his torso and arms, adding a rugged edge to the otherwise minimal setting.
On his chest, sweeping lines coil in patterns that could be vines or waves, the design refusing to be defined. Over his shoulder, petals unfurl from an indistinct center, dissolving into tendrils of ink that sneak out of sight. The transitions are seamless, hypnotic, with no clear start or end.
The closer I look, the more the images seem to change: one moment, they’re floral; the next, they ripple like water disturbed by a gentle breeze. Together, they create an enigmatic masterpiece—impossible to decipher, and impossible to ignore.
I can’t stop staring.
It’s absurd how photogenic Dorian is. But I couldn’t care less about the perfect composition or the flattering angles. All I can think about is how much I want to trace those lines of ink with my fingers, then—heaven help me—with my tongue.
But more than that, I crave to learn the stories behind each tattoo. Are they happy memories, moments of triumph? Or are they laced with sorrow? Reminders of things lost? Would he tell me if I asked?
I’m not even sure what answers to that last question would scare me more.
The photographer paces around, calling directions as his camera clicks in rapid bursts. Dorian shifts on the bed accordingly, propping himself up on one elbow. The muscles in his forearm go taut, the ink twisting with the movement. His chin tilts, his smoldering gaze locking on the lens.
His torso is angled to catch the natural light, highlighting the loopy contours of the line of text inked on his ribs. That elusive writing is the perfect metaphor for my mental state: being sure about something that’s out of focus. I can tell they are words, but I can’t read them at this distance.
I’ve seen the tattoos before. In pictures, in videos—except for the left side of his chest and that writing that are new… but seeing them in real life is having a strange effect on me. I never even thought I’d be into that much ink. But I clearly am.
If male seduction were a weapon, this ad would be classified as artillery—sleek, provocative, and aimed directly at my professional composure.
To shield myself, I keep my focus on the screen displaying the shots, the diluted grain of pixels easier to bear. As Dorian’s PR rep, I’m supposed to make sure the photographer and the publication stay aligned with the image we’re shaping for him. But no matter how hard I try, my eyes keep drifting back to the real-life Dorian on that fucking bed.
In the photos, he looks like a marble statue brought to life—detached, flawless, untouchable. In reality, there’s nothing cold about him. He sizzles. I’m surprised those sheets haven’t caught fire yet. And through it all, I feel like I’m being deep-fried.
If the goal here is to market him as the eighth deadly sin, they might as well call it a day. Mission accomplished.
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” the photographer announces, echoing my thoughts. He steps back, lowering his camera and checking the last few shots with a satisfied smile.
Dorian swings his legs off the bed, stretching his arms overhead and hopping off with feline grace. His movements are unhurried and languid, showing too much comfort in his near-nudity as he strolls toward me. At his approach, I force myself to keep my gaze locked somewhere above his shoulders, hazing out the defined lines of his torso or the tattoos that seem even more vivid up close. And I’m most definitely not looking at his crotch region where those tight briefs are leaving little to the imagination.
I’m about to combust from sheer proximity when a production assistant mercifully swoops in with a white satin robe. Dorian takes it with a casual, “Thanks,” shrugging it on, still looking incredibly masculine despite the shiny fabric. As he ties the sash around his waist, I track the motion of his hands—his long fingers tugging, knotting, cinching the strap in place, somehow more sensual than the act itself.
Heat creeps up my neck as I get a whiff of Dorian’s scent. I fold my arms to withdraw from it and lean away. Before any of us speak, the photographer and a production assistant huddle behind the monitor next to me to review the shots. I jump at the opportunity to put more distance between us, stepping aside and leaving space for Dorian to check the screen. He glances at the preview images with a nod of approval.
