Dove
I have always believed that there is a very fine line between high fashion and subtle torture.
And currently, that line was being drawn down my sternum in black sheer lace.
"Stop moving, chérie [dear]," Sa-rang commanded, tapping my chin lightly with the back of a bronzing brush.
Sa-rang was twenty-five, impossibly chic, and had been flown in directly from Seoul to oversee my look for the Brazilian leg of the B&B campaign. Her family and Danilo had been close for years, which meant she had known the Pereira family long enough to not be intimidated by any of them—including the massive, brooding twenty-year-old currently burning a hole into the back of my neck from the armchair across the room.
"I'm not moving," I murmured, keeping my lips flat so she could dust a tiny bit of setting powder over my nose.
