Love

The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, vintage champagne, and the electric hum of Paris after dark. It was Kylian’s birthday, and the crème de la crème of the football world had descended upon the venue to celebrate. Yet, despite the presence of global superstars and high-fashion models, most eyes were gravitating toward a single point of gravity near the bar.

Mimi felt like a doll come to life. Her long, wavy hair had been teased into voluminous clouds that framed her face, making her eyes look wider and her features more delicate. The pink satin minidress she wore was a masterpiece of minimalism; it clung to her small frame like a second skin, the deep V-cut neckline emphasizing the curves of her chest in a way that was both innocent and devastatingly provocative.

"You look incredible, Mimi," Kylian said, leaning in to press a friendly kiss to her cheek, though his eyes lingered a second too long on the way the satin shimmered under the disco lights. "Michael, you’re a lucky man. I’m surprised you let her out of the house in that."

Michael’s arm tightened around Mimi’s waist instantly, his fingers splaying across the silk fabric. His smile was polite, the practiced grin of a professional athlete, but there was a sharp, possessive glint in his eyes that hadn't faded since they left their apartment.

"I didn't have much of a choice," Michael replied, his voice a low rumble that Mimi felt vibrating through her side. "But she’s with me, so it doesn't matter what she wears."

Mimi giggled, the sound light and musical, as she leaned her head against Michael’s shoulder. "He’s being a bit of a grouch tonight, Kylian. Don’t mind him. Happy birthday!"

As Kylian moved on to greet other guests, Mimi felt Michael’s hand slide a fraction lower, his thumb hooking into the side of her dress. She looked up at him, her cheeks naturally flushed a rosy pink that matched her outfit.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, reaching up to straighten his collar. "You’re being very... tactile."

"People are staring, Mimi," Michael muttered, his gaze sweeping the room. He caught the eye of a younger teammate who was shamelessly eyeing the hem of Mimi’s dress. Michael didn't look away until the younger boy turned red and suddenly found his drink very interesting. "They’re drooling. It’s annoying."

"It’s a compliment to your taste," she teased, poking his chest. "Besides, I only have eyes for you. You know that."

"I know," he said, pulling her closer until there was no daylight between them. "But I don’t like the way they're looking at you like you're a gift they get to unwrap. Only I get to do that."

The party roared on. Mimi was a social butterfly, flitting from group to group with Michael attached to her like a shadow. Every time a photographer approached or a fellow player tried to engage her in conversation, Michael’s hand would find its way to the small of her back, her hip, or her shoulder. He was marking his territory without saying a word, his presence a silent warning to anyone who thought they could flirt with the girl in the pink dress.

By midnight, the heels Mimi had chosen for their aesthetic value were beginning to take their toll. Sensing her slight stumble, Michael immediately guided her toward one of the plush velvet booths in the corner of the VIP section.

"Feet hurting?" he asked, his voice softening.

"A little," she admitted, sinking into the cushions.

Michael sat down beside her, but instead of leaving a respectful distance, he slid close, practically draping himself over her. He reached down, lifting her legs and resting them across his lap. Mimi let out a small sigh of relief as his large, warm hands began to massage her thighs, his fingers kneading the tired muscles just above the hem of her dress.

"Michael," she gasped softly, her face heating up. "People can see."

"Let them look," he said, his eyes dark and focused on his task. "They can see that you’re tired, and they can see exactly who is taking care of you."

His touch was firm, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin satin. It wasn't just a massage; it was a claim. Every stroke of his thumbs against her skin felt like he was rewriting the narrative of the night, shifting the attention from her beauty to his possession of it.

"You're being very jealous tonight," Mimi whispered, leaning back against the velvet. "It’s actually kind of hot."

Michael paused, his hands stilling on her thighs. He looked up, a slow, smoldering smirk spreading across his face. "Is it? I thought I was being a nuisance."

"A little bit of both," she laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "But I like it when you get protective. It makes me feel... cherished."

"You are cherished," he said seriously, his voice dropping an octave. "But you’re also mine. I don’t like sharing your attention, especially when you look like this. You look like a doll, Mimi. A beautiful, perfect doll that I want to put in a glass case so no one else can touch."

"I’m not a doll, Michael," she reminded him, though she didn't move away. "I’m a woman. Your woman."

"I know," he murmured, his hand sliding higher up her leg, the silk of the dress bunching slightly under his palm. "And believe me, I’m going to remind you of that the second we get home."

A group of Michael’s friends approached, led by a boisterous midfielder who was already three gin and tonics deep. "Hey! There’s the golden couple! Mimi, you look absolutely stunning. We were just saying, Michael’s definitely punching above his weight tonight."

Michael didn't break his rhythm. He continued to massage Mimi’s leg, his expression cool and composed. "She looks beautiful every night. Tonight, the rest of you just happened to notice."

"Hard not to notice," the friend chuckled, his eyes drifting down to where Michael’s hand was resting. He cleared his throat, sensing the tension. "Anyway, we’re heading to the terrace for cigars. You coming?"

"No," Michael said firmly. "Mimi’s tired. We’re going to stay right here."

The friends took the hint and scurried off. Mimi looked at Michael, an amused expression on her face. "You just scared them off."

"They were boring me," Michael said, finally moving his hand from her leg to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her head onto his chest. "I’d rather just sit here with you."

Mimi snuggled into him, the scent of his cologne—something woody and masculine—enveloping her. Despite the loud music and the flashing lights, she felt safe. Michael’s jealousy wasn't the suffocating kind; it was a fierce, protective fire that made her feel like the center of his universe.

"I think we should go," Michael whispered into her hair a few minutes later.

"Already? Kylian hasn't even cut the cake."

"He won't miss us," Michael said, his hand straying back to her waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip. "And I’ve had enough of sharing you with a room full of people. I want you all to myself."

Mimi looked at him, seeing the hunger in his eyes that had been simmering all evening. The pink satin dress had done its job—it had made her the star of the party, but more importantly, it had driven Michael to the brink of his self-control.

"Okay," she whispered, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Let’s go home."

As they stood up, Michael made sure to keep her tucked tightly under his arm. He led her through the crowd, nodding curtly to those who tried to stop them, his body acting as a shield against the wandering eyes and the reaching hands.

When they reached the valet, the cool night air hit them, a sharp contrast to the heat of the party. Michael pulled her into the back of the waiting car, and the moment the door clicked shut, the silence of the vehicle felt heavy with anticipation.

"Finally," Michael breathed, pulling her onto his lap.

Mimi laughed, her voluminous hair spilling over his arms. "You were really struggling back there, weren't you?"

"You have no idea," he groaned, his hands finding the hem of the pink dress again. "The way that guy was looking at your legs... I almost lost it."

"But you didn't," she soothed, kissing his jawline. "You were a perfect gentleman. A very possessive, slightly terrifying gentleman."

"I’ll show you terrifying," he teased, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck.

As the car sped through the streets of Paris, Mimi realized that while the dress had made everyone else look at her, it was Michael’s reaction that made her feel truly beautiful. She was his doll, his girl, his everything—and tonight, he was going to make sure she never forgot it.