Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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She could almost feel the heat of his body against her back, the strength of his hands as they replaced hers on her breasts, squeezing harder, pinching her nipples until she gasped his name.

”Fuck...” she whispered, her voice husky with need.

Her other hand trailed downward, slipping beneath the thin lace of her thong. She was already soaked, her arousal coating her fingers as they slid easily between her slick folds, circling her swollen clit with slow, teasing strokes. In her mind, Marvin had her bent over the vanity, one strong hand gripping her hip while the other worked between her legs, his fingers pushing inside her while he whispered filthy things against her ear—how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, how he’d been thinking about her since the last meeting.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, legs spreading wider as her fingers moved faster, her hips lifting to meet her own touch.

Two fingers plunged deep into her tight, dripping pussy, curling to stroke that sensitive spot inside her. Her hips rocked shamelessly against her hand as she imagined him taking her—hard, deep, relentless. She pictured those powerful arms that had shot leopard now pinning her down, his body slamming into hers, claiming her completely with the same focus he showed everything he cared about.

The fantasy grew wilder, more desperate. She imagined him on top of her, fucking her slow and deep while staring into her eyes, then flipping her over and taking her from behind like an animal, one hand fisted in her hair as he drove into her again and again, whispering that she was his, that he’d never let her go, that he’d kill anything that tried to take her from him.

Miranda moaned louder, her free hand gripping the sheets as she added a third finger, stretching herself while her thumb rubbed frantic circles on her clit. Her breasts bounced with every desperate roll of her hips. The ache inside her built higher and higher, coiling tighter until she was right on the edge, whimpering his name like a prayer, her body trembling with the force of her need.

”Marvin... please... oh god, Marvin...”

Just as her body arched, teetering on the brink of release, the sharp, intrusive ring of her mobile phone shattered the heavy silence.

Miranda gasped, her eyes snapping open, heart hammering wildly in her chest. Her fingers were still buried deep inside her soaked pussy, her thighs trembling, her body screaming for the release that had been so close. She stayed frozen for a long second, breath ragged, body flushed and aching.

The phone kept ringing, insistent and cruel.

With a frustrated groan that was almost a sob, she reached blindly for the vibrating device on the nightstand. She checked the caller ID—it was Adriana.

Miranda cleared her throat twice, trying to force the husky, needy tremor out of her voice. She pulled her fingers out of herself reluctantly, wiping them on the sheets before answering on the third ring, her body still throbbing with unfulfilled desire.

”Adriana? Hey...” she breathed, her voice still far too husky and unsteady.

...

Halfway across the world in a New York studio, the air in the cramped VIP dressing room smelled of scorched hair, expensive perfume, and the faint, sour tang of stale champagne from the night before.

Adriana sat rigidly in front of the vanity mirror, ignoring the frantic makeup artists swarming outside her door. At seventeen, she had long ago learned the brutal math of the fashion industry.

Behind the silk, the flashing cameras, and the million-dollar contracts, it was still a meat market—run by soft, predatory people with fat wallets and wandering hands. She had smiled through endless dinners, parties, and ”private meetings” where powerful people in their fifties and sixties looked at her like a commodity to be consumed. She had learned how to navigate casting couches, how to deflect wandering hands while still securing the bag, how to survive in a world that wanted to eat her alive.

That was power in her world. It was ugly, transactional, and exhausting.

But the newspaper spread across her lap told a completely different story.

Adriana’s fingernail traced the grainy image of Marvin Meyers sitting astride the bay gelding, bow drawn, two dead apex predators lying at his feet. The photo radiated raw, primal dominance. The way his muscles strained under his shirt, the cold, focused intensity in his eyes, the effortless way he commanded the scene—it hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs.

’This... this is what real power is supposed to look like,’ she thought, her breath hitching sharply in her throat, her heart racing.

He was younger than her, but looking at him made her feel small, feminine, and deliciously vulnerable in a way no older man ever had. A deep, throbbing heat bloomed between her thighs. She pressed her legs together, but it only made the ache worse. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her robe as she imagined those strong arms pinning her down, that intense gaze locked on her while he took whatever he wanted, protecting her from all the predators she’d had to navigate alone.

She thought about November. The wedding. Kris and his uncle. She was supposed to be there. She was supposed to be standing right next to Miranda in that bridesmaid dress, drinking champagne with billionaires and positioning herself in the highest circles of American old money. She could have secured her future ten times over at that reception.

But mostly, she thought about the photos Miranda had sent her afterward—Marvin in that pristine white groomsman suit, looking like a fallen angel who had just finished burning down heaven. The moment she saw them in that cold Milan hotel room, her lower lips had clenched so hard she had to bite her lip to stay quiet. She hadn’t slept properly since. Every night she touched herself thinking about him, imagining his hands on her body, his voice in her ear, his self stretching her open, filling her completely.

She had sacrificed all of that—the connections, the wealth, the chance to stand close to *him*—just to appease a room full of Victoria’s Secret executives in their sterile conference room. She got the million-dollar contract. Her career was safe. But staring at this newspaper now, realizing this boy had become a global myth, the money suddenly felt like ashes in her mouth.

Unable to contain the wild, chaotic burning through her veins, Adriana snatched her phone with shaking fingers and dialed.

Thousands of miles away, Miranda gasped as the phone buzzed, her eyes snapping open. Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest. She stayed frozen for a second, her breath ragged against the cool hotel sheets, before reaching blindly for the device on the nightstand.

She saw Adriana’s name. Miranda cleared her throat, forcing the husky tremor of her own fantasies down, pasting on her sweet, innocent persona. ”Adriana? Hey.”

”Miranda! *Meu Deus*, tell me you are looking at the news right now!” Adriana’s voice exploded through the receiver, high-pitched and vibrating with raw excitement. ”Are you seeing this? Your little American relative is on the TV again, but this time it is for *much* different reasons! The one with the eyes, Miranda!”

Miranda closed her eyes, a secret, triumphant smile tugging at her lips as she lay back against the pillows, her body still humming with unspent desire. ”I saw Adriana. The whole world saw.”

”He killed leopards, Miranda! With a bow! On a horse!” Adriana babbled, pacing the length of her dressing room, staring at her own reflection but only seeing the boy in the paper. ”I told Gisele, ’This is not a boy, this is an Amazonian warrior reborn!’ Every girl in this agency is calling me right now. They want to know if you have his private number. You know the men in this industry, Miranda. You know the gross photographers and the creepy producers. And then they look at *him*... They are going crazy. They are saying he looks like a god!”

Adriana let out a frustrated, guttural groan. ”Oh, *Deus*, I am still so angry I could scream! I look at this paper and I want to break my vanity mirror!”

Miranda smirked, tracing the edge of her silk blanket, her body still warm and flushed from her interrupted pleasure. ”You’re still upset about November.”

”Of course I am still upset about November!” Adriana practically shrieked, the refined supermodel facade dropping completely to reveal the hungry, ambitious girl underneath. ”I was supposed to be Kris’s bridesmaid! I was supposed to be standing *right there* next to you! If it wasn’t for that stupid editorial schedule and those Victoria’s Secret suits needing to ’evaluate’ my ’form’, I would have been there!”

Adriana’s voice dropped an octave, shifting into a sultry, heavy confession. ”I saw the photos, Miranda. Him in that all-white suit? *Nossa Senhora*. My heart started beating like a locomotive. Boom-boom-boom. I couldn’t breathe. It was a handsome, wild smile. Just seeing it made my heart race. I look at those pictures and I think about the money in that room, the real power... but honestly? I just think about *him*. I haven’t slept right in months. His songs are stuck in my head on a loop. I traded being in the same room as Wonder Boy just to walk in underwear for old men!”

Miranda felt a sharp spike of territorial jealousy pierce her chest. Adriana was beautiful—devastatingly so. She had the exotic, fierce look that made men ruin their lives. But the jealousy was instantly swallowed by an overwhelming, intoxicating sense of superiority.

Let Adriana complain. Let the other girls stare at the magazines and gossip in the crowded, hairspray-choked dressing rooms. Adriana had missed her chance.

”It was a beautiful wedding, Adri,” Miranda purred, her voice dripping with sympathetic honey, perfectly masking the cunning edge beneath her Australian lilt. ”But you know how it is. You had to secure the VS contract. If you didn’t, your agency would have buried you. Your career comes first.”

”I know, I know,” Adriana sighed, running a hand through her dark hair, the restless energy practically humming through the phone line. ”But you have to promise me, Miranda. Next time there is a family dinner, or a premiere, or *anything*... you have to take me. You are practically family now! You have the access! The girls here are threatening me to get to you. Gisele is hyperventilating in the corner.”

”Let them talk,” Miranda said softly, her eyes drifting toward the locked door of her suite. She knew the dark realities of the world just as well as Adriana did, which was exactly why she was guarding her prize so fiercely. ”But they shouldn’t get their hopes up, Adriana. A man like that doesn’t just belong to anyone. He’s... very particular.”

”Ooh, listen to you!” Adriana teased, her sharp instincts catching the subtle, possessive shift in Miranda’s tone. She laughed, a rich, knowing sound. ”You sound like you’ve already claimed the prize! Are you keeping secrets from me, *menina*? Have you already tasted the forbidden fruit?”

”I don’t have to claim what’s already been settled,” Miranda whispered, her eyes glowing with a satisfied light in the dim hotel room. Let Adriana dream about the white suit. Miranda was already planning her next move.

”Well, whatever you are doing, you better hold on tight,” Adriana warned playfully, though there was a real edge of competitive warning in her voice. ”Because after today, every woman who knows what real power looks like is going to be hunting the hunter.”

”Let them try,” Miranda replied smoothly, her hand drifting back down her body, ready to finish what she’d started.

As Adriana continued to chatter about the media storm, dissecting which brands were desperately trying to sign Marvin up but getting rejected, Miranda’s thumb traced the screen of her phone. She let Adriana’s gossip fade into background noise, waiting for the one call that actually mattered—the one that would connect her to the man.

---

Even Diana, the oldest among that circle of girls and usually the very picture of composed elegance, found herself locked away in her private study at Kensington Palace, the door bolted shut against the world, against her sons, against her own treacherous heart.

The high-resolution images from New Zealand were spread across her antique desk like sacred relics—or perhaps like evidence at a trial where she was simultaneously judge, jury, and condemned. She stared at them with parted lips, her elegant fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the paper.

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