Page 23 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

I turn my back on the inept stylist as she frantically flicks through the notes on her tablet, pausing briefly to narrow my eyes at the photographer as they raise their camera — toward me again.

The photographer lowers the camera.

Apparently, I was mistaken, and we haven’t worked together before. Because otherwise, they would know I never approve work-in-progress or behind-the-scenes shots.

I turn back to the models. “May I?”

“Anything,” the female breathes.

The male simply leans back with fake cocky insolence. I know it’s fake because it’s definitely missing an element. The cocky part. The front of the pants are far too baggy. Which is fine. I can help with that.

But first, I train all my focus on the female model. Careful to only touch the yellow silk fabric, I call forth my essence and start adjusting the dress.

She leans closer to murmur to me, “I’m Adria. He’s Tyson.”

“Salvatore.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, arching into my nontouch, against the press of my essence.

I focus on my work. When I’m done, the dress fits her as it should, enhancing her lovely figure while hiding enough to leave the rest to the imagination of the viewer.

I then raise my hands to her face. “I have to touch you to fix your makeup.”

Adria sucks lightly on her upper lip, keeping her voice low. “I knew it was too much.”

Barely making contact, I brush my thumbs over her brow, then eyes, and cheekbones. I direct my essence to take the liners, powders, and creams already layered over her skin and transform them into a more muted palette, until she’s almost barefaced.

Adria is breathing heavily, almost panting. Her pupils are softly dilated. Her tight nipples press against the thin fabric of the dress.

Perfect.

I glance to my left. The PA with the beaded braids is back, hovering, watching me like she’s memorizing everything I’m doing.

This near to me, I can tell she’s a fabricator mage like me.

And smart. She brought the ice I requested, placing the individual cubes in plastic bags, and with multiple bags resting in a bowl filled with ice and wrapped in a not-so-subtle insulation spell.

So her hands aren’t being slowly frozen by the container as she waits for me to acknowledge her.

“The lipstick palette?” I ask.

She nods brusquely, spinning away to thrust the bowl of ice into the hands of another hovering PA. Quietly demanding that they stay put, she runs toward makeup. Makeup who should have already been close by and ready to step in for touch-ups.

I cast a derisive look at the assistant stylist. She shifts on her feet uncomfortably.

I step up to the male model.

“Ty is fine,” he says, nodding his assent to whatever I need to do along with the offer of his shortened name.

I start with his face so that he gets used to the feel of my essence— and so I can gauge whether or not I need to broach the other obvious issue, or if he reacts to my touch as Adria did.

Models are generally good at enforcing their boundaries, but I’m particularly skilled at blithely tripping over such things.

In contrast to the natural look I gave Adria, I darken the lining around Ty’s eyes, deepening the contouring under his cheekbones and jaw.

I tease my fingers and my essence through his hair until it looks less banker and more just-thoroughly-fucked.

I step back to sweep him with a critical gaze. Critical of my own work, that is. The models are both perfection. Then I compare his look to Adria. She’s still gently panting and watching me closely. My essence has lingering effects on some people.

The PA is back, holding the bowl of ice again in one hand and a tray with an array of lip gloss in the other.

I turn my gaze back to Ty, noting that except for the silk-linen pants and the unmarred skin, he now eerily resembles Bolan.

Specifically, Bolan when Bolan was still Oliver.

Before Oliver dyed his blond locks black, tattooed almost the entirety of his arms and chest, and recklessly broke my darling girl’s heart.

I say recklessly because I know, even if I’m the only one, that he shattered something of his own soul at the same time. He’s tried to dampen that something with music and fame and a plethora of drugs ever since.

Not that I know any of the particulars of what happened between Mirth and Bolan. The thing that changed them both so fundamentally.

As gorgeous as he is, Ty would be lucky to have even a lick of Bolan’s charisma. And when I refocus on him rather than staying lost inside my head, I no longer see the resemblance as sharply.

Time to tackle the pants. And technically, the entire point of the shoot.

“Remove Ty’s jewelry,” I say.

The competent PA is already moving before I finish my request. Handing her burdens to the other PA with another stern warning not to wander, she slips around Ty to remove the heavy gold chains from his neck and wrists.

“Bring me scarves instead,” I say, already knowing that the assistant stylist dismissed the scarves, ignoring the brief and subbing in the jewelry, to inject her own artistic style into the shoot.

“Which —”

“Bring me two. You select which.”

The PA’s eyes widen for a moment. Then they narrow with a pleased gleam as she struggles to also hide a smile. She spins away, heading off in the direction of wardrobe.

“I told her,” Ty mutters under his breath.

I give him a nod, but address the sensitive subject that needs to be broached instead. Not that it’s sensitive to me. It’s just that I’ve been informed on multiple occasions that it’s sensitive to others .

I am capable of learning to recognize and modify my own … lack of boundaries.

“The pants are too loose.”

He frowns. “They fit at the waist.”

“Not through the crotch.”

He flushes. It’s a becoming color, vulnerable and appealing against the dark-lined eyes and mussed hair.

“Sometimes the touch of my essence is enough …” I let that offer linger between us for a moment, then add, “But I could also request a prosthetic?”

Ty’s gaze flicks to Adria. She smiles at him, all inviting.

He looks back to me, all serious. “I can jerk off … I mean, just enough … between shoots.”

“I’d have to see the other outfits that have been selected for you to determine if that’s necessary,” I say. “But here, with you sprawled back wearing only linen, with a beautiful woman draped against you …”

“I get it.” His tone is professional. I can’t tell if I’ve upset him or not until he quietly adds, “Thank you.”

Not upset.

I turn my attention to the legs of his pants, lightly running my fingertips over the fabric so it’s perfectly pressed where it needs to be, but draped at the ankles around his bare feet.

Ty watches me with glittering eyes, allowing his head to fall back a little. When I shift my attention to the waistband and crotch, partially blocking him with my body, Adria reaches between us and rubs Ty’s already hardening cock, helping the touch of my essence along.

Not that my essence is inherently sexy. It’s just that people who are inclined to be turned on by me often react to it that way. Ty was firmly in professional mode when I fixed his makeup, but now he allows himself to enjoy the process a little more.

He groans quietly, gaze flicking between me and Adria. “That helps.”

“It sure does,” she teases, releasing his cock. It now happily strains against the silk-linen fabric. Not enough to be obscene, but just enough to be titillating if the viewer takes a closer look.

The PA is back with two scarves. The first is navy silk, hand-painted with licks of yellow that match the dress Adria is wearing. The second is a heavier weave, likely a silk-linen blend in a contrast of greens, blues, and a hint of red.

“Interesting,” I say. Then I nod encouragingly toward Ty.

The PA hesitates for less than a second. Then she pairs the scarves and wraps them around Ty’s neck, working a loose, short braid into the dangling ends.

I leave her to it, gesturing to the other PA to bring the tray of lip gloss closer. I quickly sort through my picks based on Adria’s actual lip color. Then I grin and ask teasingly, “Which is closest to the color of your nipples, darling? That’s the only shade you should ever wear.”

Adria’s eyes flare with desire. She languidly leans over the tray, which the PA helpfully lowers for her, and plucks up the tube at the center of my selected few.

Without looking close enough to achieve a more exact match, I would have picked darker. But I’ve been informed that requesting to view the parts of a person’s body usually covered by clothing is also a boundary I shouldn’t cross. Not with people I’m not already intimate with, at least.

I don’t actually need the gloss — just the color match as I brush my thumb over the gloss that already coats Adria’s lips. Under the press of my essence, that color transforms to match the ‘nipple’ color she selected.

As I pull away, Adria snags my wrist and whispers, “Later?” hopefully. Her questioning gaze flicks to Ty. Given that he’ s a shifter with enhanced hearing, he nods once in agreement. She looks back at me.

I do have an itch that needs scratching. And even if I lose myself in work all afternoon, it will still need scratching. I’ve ignored it for too long.

The fact that Adria has invited Ty along informs me that some of my proclivities, specifically my short attention span, are possibly a little too well known for my liking. I don’t enjoy having people believe they know me when we’ve barely met.

Still, I smile and say, “Find me later.”

I straighten, eyeing the scarves the PA twined around Ty’s neck and nodding my approval. “Good. Do you see what I’ve done here?”

Instead of simply nodding back, the PA — I should probably learn her name since I’m about to blow her mind — casts a critical eye over the models.

“Yes,” she says, sure and focused.