Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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”Marvin!” Her startled laugh echoed beneath the hotel entrance. ”Oh my God.”

She looked up at him with exaggerated disbelief. ”I can literally walk.”

She wiggled one foot dramatically. ”See? Legs.”

”I noticed.” He smiled without slowing. ”But you’re busy.”

”I am?”

”You’re working.” Paris blinked once before instinctively looking back down at the script. ”...Fair point.”

Within seconds she was reading again, completely surrendering to being carried.

”Oh...”

Her eyes widened. ”Oh my God.”

She tugged lightly at the front of his shirt without looking away from the pages. ”She figured it out from the dry-cleaning receipt?”

She looked up at him in amazement. ”That’s actually genius.”

Then her eyes immediately dropped back to the manuscript. ”No...”

She smiled to herself. ”That’s... like... really smart.”

The doorman pulled the glass doors open, trying—and failing—to hide his surprise. ”Good evening, Miss Hilton.”

Paris gave him the quickest smile without lifting her head from the script. ”Hi...”

She was already reading again before the greeting had finished.

Loose strands of blonde hair had escaped her ponytail, falling across her face as she turned another page with growing excitement.

Inside the lobby, several bellhops paused in the middle of loading luggage.

The concierge looked up from his desk.

A pair of guests waiting near the elevators glanced over.

Even the front desk manager stopped typing for a second.

The image was impossible not to notice.

Paris Hilton—normally the center of every room she entered—was paying absolutely no attention to the elegant lobby around her.

She remained completely absorbed in the manuscript resting against Marvin’s shoulder while he carried her across the marble floor as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Neither of them seemed aware of the attention. Or particularly interested in it.

Without breaking stride, Marvin crossed the lobby toward the private elevators.

The doors slid open as if they had been waiting for him. A moment later, they closed with a soft chime, carrying the pair out of sight.

For several heartbeats, the lobby remained strangely still.

The bellhop frowned, certain he had just seen something unusual. The concierge blinked once, then twice, the memory already slipping through his fingers like a dream upon waking. The front desk manager glanced toward the elevators, only to find himself wondering why he had looked over in the first place.

Then the moment quietly unraveled.

Conversations resumed. Suitcases rolled across the marble floor. Telephones rang. Someone laughed near the reception desk.

Within seconds, what should have become tomorrow’s gossip had dissolved into nothing more than a vague feeling that something interesting might have happened.

No one could quite remember what it was.

They reached the private elevator, and without disturbing her for a second, Marvin leaned over and pressed the button for the penthouse.

Paris never looked up.

She was completely absorbed in the world unfolding across the pages—a world where a blonde socialite everyone underestimated turned out to be the smartest person in the room, where fashion became evidence, and where kindness and confidence won over arrogance.

”Oh my God...Marvin, this is like, so intense,” she murmured, barely above a whisper as another page turned. ”Marvin... this is, like, actually so good.”

She shook her head, still reading. ”The whole perm thing? That’s insane.”

She looked up for the briefest second, laughing. ”People are seriously gonna think I’m smart.”

Marvin smiled down at her. ”You are smart enough.”

Paris rolled her eyes with a tiny grin. ”Whatever.”

But the smile stayed on her face as she disappeared back into the script.

The elevator chimed softly.

Marvin carried her down the quiet hallway while she continued reading, completely oblivious to everything around her. Her suite key was already in his pocket, and a moment later he unlocked the familiar penthouse door.

The warm, softly lit suite welcomed them like an old friend. the pink palace—that suite that had become their sanctuary, that cotton-candy cocoon in a world of gray—and finally set her down on the velvet chaise lounge near the window. The city lights painted her face in hues of gold and rose as she immediately curled into position, tucking her legs beneath her in that particular way she had, knees together, feet pointed, the posture of a girl who had been drilled in ballet and finishing school even when she pretended to be too cool for either.

The instant her feet touched the cushion, she tucked them beneath herself without thinking, curling into her favorite reading position.

She barely noticed she’d been set down. ”Don’t distract me,” she murmured absentmindedly, one finger marking her place on the page. ”I’m almost at the really good part.”

Another page turned.

Then— ”Oh my God.” Her eyes grew wide.

”No way.” She looked up at Marvin in disbelief. ”He was cheating?”

She glanced back down immediately. ”With her?”

Paris scrunched up her nose dramatically. ”With that *cow*? That’s like, totally gross. Warner is such a pig.”

Marvin couldn’t help smiling.

For a moment he simply watched her.

The excitement in her eyes.

The way her brow furrowed whenever she pieced something together.

The little habit of catching her lower lip between her teeth whenever a twist surprised her.

The glamorous socialite everyone thought they knew disappeared whenever she found a story she genuinely loved. What remained was simply a young woman completely immersed in a book.

He moved into the kitchenette, a compact space of marble and brushed stainless pink steel that he’d gradually stocked during previous visits. Cooking always settled him, and he slipped into the familiar rhythm without thinking.

The knife flashed across the cutting board, reducing shallots to fine, even pieces. Chicken hissed as it met the hot pan, the skin turning crisp and golden. A splash of white wine hit the skillet, releasing a fragrant cloud of butter, herbs, and garlic that slowly filled the suite.

Paris’s stomach growled loudly.

She didn’t even notice. Her eyes never left the script.

Marvin glanced over his shoulder, smiling to himself.

Every few minutes, while waiting for something to simmer or reduce, he wandered back into the living room.

Paris remained curled up on the chaise exactly where he’d left her, knees tucked beneath her, completely absorbed.

He stopped behind her chair.

Without looking away from the page, she leaned back until her head rested lightly against him, as though she’d done it a hundred times before.

His fingers would trace the line of her jaw, tilt her head up for a kiss that she accepted blindly, her eyes never leaving the page, murmuring ”mm-hmm” against his mouth as he teased her lips apart. Then his hands would slide down, bold and possessive, cupping her breasts through the silk of her dress, kneading with gentle insistence while she gasped and squirmed, her reading faltering only slightly.

”You’re back,” she murmured absently.

”I never really left.”

”Mmm.” She turned another page.

Marvin brushed a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear before resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. ”You haven’t blinked in five minutes.”

”I have too.”

”You blinked once.”

”See?” she replied triumphantly. ”That’s technically blinking.”

He laughed under his breath. ”You’ve become impossible.”

”I’ve always been impossible.” She finally glanced up, only for a second, wearing the smallest, most satisfied smile.

”This is just... really good.” Her attention immediately returned to the manuscript.

”Oh...” Another page turned.

”No way.” She pointed at the script without looking at him.

”I knew she wasn’t as dumb as everybody thought.”

”I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

Paris smiled to herself.

”I love that.” She tapped the page lightly.

”Everybody keeps underestimating her, and she just keeps proving them wrong.”

Marvin nodded. ”That’s kind of the point.”

She looked up at him again. ”You wrote this for someone?”

”I did.”

Paris studied him for a moment before smiling. ”They’re really lucky.”

For a second, neither of them spoke.

”Marvin,” she breathed, arching into his touch even as she turned a page, her voice that particular breathy whisper that had launched a thousand magazine profiles. ”I’m trying to *concentrate*. This is like, important.”

”So concentrate,” he whispered, his thumbs circling her nipples through the fabric until they hardened beneath his touch, visible through the thin silk. ”Don’t let me stop you. Be a good girl and focus.”

She giggled—a sound that was half moan, half laughter, even as his right hand slid lower, beneath the hem of her dress, finding the warm skin of her thigh. He didn’t go further, not wanting to truly disturb her focus, just teasing, caressing, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin that made her shift and squirm, reminding her with every touch that he was there.

”You’re like, totally distracting,” she complained, but she was smiling, her eyes still scanning lines, her hips subtly rocking against his hand. ”Oh my God, and then she—Marvin, did you write this part? Where she uses the fashion knowledge to trap him? That’s like, so me. That’s exactly what I would do.”

”I know,” he said, his hand stilling for a moment, resting possessively on her thigh. ”That’s why I wrote it.”

Then another wonderful smell drifted in from the kitchen. Paris’s stomach growled again—this time even louder.

She froze. ”...You didn’t hear that.”

”I absolutely heard that.”

”Oh my God.” She buried her face behind the script in mock embarrassment. ”I’ve been caught.”

”You’ve been ignoring dinner for almost eight hours.”

”I know. But I need to finish this Chapter.”

Marvin folded his arms with amused resignation. ”You have exactly ten more minutes.”

She peeked over the top of the pages. ”Fifteen?”

”Twelve.”

She grinned. ”Deal.”

Without another word, she disappeared back into the story, while Marvin returned to the stove, shaking his head with a quiet smile as the comforting aroma of dinner continued to fill the suite.

....

...

..

.

By the time dinner was ready—a classic coq au vin with warm crusty bread he’d picked up from a bakery in SoHo and a simple salad of bitter greens to balance the richness—Paris had made it halfway through the script.

She’d started skipping ahead, only to flip back again moments later, afraid she’d missed something important. Every few pages she’d whisper to herself. ”Oh my God...”

Or— ”That’s totally me.”

Sometimes she’d laugh.

Sometimes she’d gasp.

More than once she simply stared at a page, rereading the same exchange with a growing smile.

She was so absorbed that she barely noticed Marvin stepping beside her. She didn’t notice when he lifted her again, carrying her to the small dining table near the window, setting her down in a chair and sliding into the adjacent one so their knees touched beneath the linen, the contact electric even in its simplicity.

”Eat,” he commanded softly, placing a napkin in her lap, his hand lingering on her thigh.

Paris looked up as if waking from a dream, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen from the kisses she’d barely registered receiving. She blinked at the food, then at him, then back at the script still clutched in her hands like a security blanket.

”Oh my God,” she said, her voice hushed, Valley Girl awe mixed with genuine emotion. ”I totally forgot about food. This smells *amazing*, baby. Like, seriously. What is it?”

Marvin poured sparkling water into her glass before adding a slice of lemon. ”It’s French.”

Paris smiled. ”See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

She picked up her fork. ”You always know fancy things.”

The first bite stopped her completely. Her eyes widened.

She slowly looked back up at him. ”No.”

Another bite. ”No, seriously.”

She pointed her fork toward him. ”This is incredible.”

She shook her head in disbelief. ”You made this?”

”I did.”

”From scratch?”

”From scratch.”

Paris let out a dramatic sigh. ”That’s so unfair.”

Marvin laughed. ”Unfair?”

”Yeah.”

She counted on her fingers. ”You write. You act. You make music. And now you cook like... I don’t even know... some eight-star chef.”

She smiled, taking another bite. ”You’re making everybody else look bad.”

”I’m sure that’s not true.”

”It totally is.” She laughed. ”I’m officially raising my standards.”

Marvin smiled, cutting into his own dinner. ”I had good teachers. And I enjoy taking care of what’s mine.”

Paris looked down for a second, smiling to herself. ”...”That’s so hot.”

Paris blushed, a flush that started at her chest and rose to her hairline, visible even beneath her perfect makeup. She ate in silence for a moment, their knees pressing together beneath the table, the contact electric even in its simplicity, her foot occasionally wandering to rub against his calf in a teasing, absent-minded way.

Paris couldn’t resist picking up the manuscript again between bites.

She’d read a page...

Take another bite...

Then immediately read another.

Eventually she set her fork down.

Her playful smile faded into thoughtful curiosity.at world of New York society since birth.

”Can I ask you something?”

****

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