We remain at a gridlock. I still haven’t taken a step or said a word. His violet eyes burn into me.

“Zoey, please don’t make me stand up and fetch you. If you do, I’m going to throw you over my knees and spank you.”

I gulp. My first words: “You would?”

“Of course not, that would be sexual harassment, n’est-ce pas? Maybe even assault and battery.”

Assault me! Take me now!

“Zo-eeey. Please. You’re beginning to stress me out. A limo will be here to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Now, come over here, and give me a quick shoulder massage and then help me get dressed.” He crooks his left index finger and signals for me.

“Okay,” I squeak. With the garment bag draped over my arm, I take one baby step after another. I’m walking like I’m on tightrope about to fall off, except there’s no safety net to catch me.

“Good girl, Zoey,” he says as I near his bed. “Now, lay the garment bag down, and hop on the bed so you can massage my shoulders.”

I’m teetering between fainting and jumping him. Somehow, I will myself to do as asked. I lay the garment bag flat on the giant bed and then crawl on to it so I’m kneeling behind him. I soak in his beautiful muscled back and his broad sculpted shoulders. The body of a swimmer. An Olympian. A God!

Wordlessly, I cup my hands over his shoulders and dig my fingers deep into his bronzed skin, pressing and kneading. He is tensed up; I can feel his knots, especially in his neck, and press deeper to loosen them.

He moans. “Ah, Zoey. So, so, so good. Your hands really are magic.” He moans melodically again, and I wonder: Is this what he sounds like after he has a satisfying orgasm? My own body heats up, and wetness gathers between my legs.

“How do you feel?” I stammer.

“Better.” His voice is sultry and soft. “I’m nervous about tonight.”

“Don’t be. You’re going to win.”

“I doubt it. I have some pretty stiff competition.”

I don’t think he has any competition in the stiffness department. I glance over his shoulder. His monstrous cock is still as hard as a rock. Every nerve in my body is sparking, and another surge of wet heat drips down my thighs. I’m so turned on I could cry.

Rolling his shoulders and head, he lets me know he’s loosened up. “Enough. Help get me dressed now.”

My legs Jell-O, I stumble off the bed and unzip the garment bag. I behold a magnificent black suit draped over a crisp white tux shirt with a plaque of “invisible” buttons and extra long cuffs. A purple bow tie that matches the color of his eyes is wrapped around the hook of the padded hanger, and a pair of black velvet slippers peak out of a shoe bag.

“Start with my shirt,” he orders.

I remove the jacket, laying it gently on the bed, and slide the dress shirt off the hanger, the cool, starched cotton a sharp contrast to my heated hands. He takes it from me and slips it on. “I need you to button it.”

“Okay.” Starting from the bottom button, I do as asked. My eyes stay fixed on his six-pack, and I feel the ripple of each finely honed muscle against my fiery fingertips. I get to the top button and adjust the wing-tipped collar.

He glances down at his hands. “After I put the jacket on, I’m going to need you to do the cuffs.”

My stomach scrunches. I have no experience with cuffs or cufflinks. But next, I have to help him with the slacks. I rummage through the bag for some underwear. Nada.

“Um, uh, aren’t you going to put on some underwear first?”

“Zoey, I don’t wear underwear. I thought you knew that.”

“Oh,” I mutter. So, that fine cock is going to strain against the fine fabric of his trousers. I hope he gives himself plenty of crotch room. I take the satin-piped pants out from the bag.

Squatting down, I slip his two feet into the leg openings and inch the formal pants up to his knees. I’m salivating. His gorgeous cock is only a mouthful way. I can practically taste it. “Stand up.”

At my command, he rises, and I’m once again awed by his imposing size. He looms over me. Gripping the pants by the waistband, I rise, sliding them up his long, muscular legs as I do. I try not to gaze at his erection or get too close to it. Impossible. He smirks at me. Asshole! Tucking in his shirt, I zip up the fly and hook the clasp. Thank goodness, I don’t have to deal with a repeat of the jeans incident.

We’re getting there. I hand him his single-button jacket and he slips it on. I do the button and flatten the satin lapels. It fits him so perfectly, accentuating his wide shoulders and his tapered, athletic physique. The wide cuffs of his shirt, however, hang out from the sleeves. Okay, now I’m in trouble.

“Zoey, the cufflinks are in the bag with my shoes. I reach for the bag and set the black velvet slippers on the floor, arranged so he can easily step into them. I then dip my hand back in the shoe bag and easily find a small silk pouch containing the cufflinks. I shake them out of the delicate see-through bag onto my palm. I study them. They’re simple but elegant gold disks engraved with the letters ET.

“You’re an ET fan? That’s one of my favorite movies too.”

He laughs. “Not at all.” And then his expression turns a bit somber. “These cufflinks belonged to my father. His name was Edward.”

“Oh,” I mumble, covering up my embarrassment. I catch sight of a family photo on his nightstand and can see the powerful resemblance.

“They’re my lucky cufflinks. My most treasured possession. I may win tonight if I wear them.”

A wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if I break them or can’t fasten them? It’ll jinx his chance of winning the Best Actor award. Oh, God! What should I do?

Brandon’s impatient voice cuts into my despair. “Zoey, what are you waiting for?” Using his splint-free fingers, he plucks one of the cufflinks out of my hand. “I’ll hold this one while you insert the other.”

After a short internal debate, I decide not to tell him that I don’t know the first thing about cufflinks. I don’t even know where to start. Logic tells me I’m supposed fold up the cuff that drapes over the back of his hand, lining up the two sets of button holes, and then insert the cufflink into each slit to hold the cuff together. Fumbling, I manage to fold up the stiff, starched fabric and line up the holes. A fine layer of soft dark hair dusts the edge of his large, manly hand.

Pinching the edges of the cuff together with one hand, I attempt to slip the bottom half of the cufflink through the top slit with the other. Makes sense. Except I can’t get the disk through no matter how hard I try. My hands are shaking and the damn buttonhole won’t give an inch.

“Zoey, what’s taking so long? The limo will be here any minute.”

At the sound of Brandon’s miffed voice, I panic, and the cufflink slips through the cracks of my fingers.

“Oh shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I just dropped your cufflink.”

“Jesus,” he says, following my eyes to the carpeted floor.

Crap. Where is it?

“I don’t see it!” he exclaims.

“Me neither!” My voice is thick with despair. I drop down on all fours and frantically search the carpet. Brandon follows suit, getting down on his hands and knees in his tux, the unfolded cuff trailing along the floor. We circle each other in our desperate scavenger hunt. Why can’t we find it? It couldn’t have gone far. And it shouldn’t be that hard to spot.

Guilt stabs me in the gut and shoots through my blood. These are his lucky cufflinks—a family heirloom. If he doesn’t wear them, he may not win tonight and it’ll be all my fault. My eyes start to water. Several rebel tears escape and fall to the carpet.

“Why are you crying?” To my surprise, Brandon’s voice is soft and sweet.

“I feel terrible. If we don’t find it, I’ll jinx your chances of winning. I’m so, so sorry.”

I’ve never failed him like this. But to my even greater surprise, Brandon grabs the edge of the loose cuff and dabs at my tears. “Stop it. We’re going to find it. It has to be here. Maybe it’s on the bed.” He stands up, slipping his bare feet into his tux slippers.