Amirah Adara: Only Anal for my big Asshole!

Amirah is starstruck, and watching a celeb up close and personal getting intimate just makes her want to fuck him more. If his date doesn’t want to go all the way, Amirah will more than make it up to him.

The invitation had arrived like something from a dream—embossed gold lettering, a venue she’d only seen in magazines, and a plus-one she hadn’t bothered to bring. The Annual Cinema Charity Gala. The kind of event where tickets cost more than her monthly rent and the champagne flowed like water from a fountain of excess.

Amirah had saved for months to afford her dress. It was worth every penny. Midnight blue silk that pooled at her feet and clung to every curve like it had been painted on. Her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck. Diamonds at her ears that were definitely fake but sparkled like the real thing under the chandeliers.

She’d come for the experience. For the story she’d tell her grandchildren. For the chance to breathe the same air as people she’d only ever seen on screens.

She hadn’t expected to breathe the same air as him.

Damon King. Leading man. Oscar winner. The kind of beautiful that made her chest ache just looking at him. He was taller in person, more solid, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made her forget her own name. For the first hour of the gala, Amirah simply watched him from across the room, content to admire from a distance.

Then he’d sat down at the table next to hers.

And then his date had started arguing with him.

Amirah tried not to listen. She really did. But the tables were close, the woman’s voice was rising, and Damon’s carefully maintained composure was beginning to crack.

“I told you, Sasha, this is work. I have to network. I have to—”

“You have to pay attention to me!” The woman—stunning, model-thin, dripping in real diamonds—pushed back from the table. “You’ve ignored me all night. I’m leaving.”

Damon reached for her arm. “Sasha, wait. Don’t do this here.”

But she was already gone, stalking through the crowd in a swirl of expensive fabric and indignation. Damon sat frozen for a long moment, his hand still extended toward empty air, his expression shifting from shock to embarrassment to something that looked almost like relief.

Amirah looked away quickly, pretending intense interest in her champagne. But she felt his gaze land on her a moment later.

“You heard all that, didn’t you?”

She turned, finding him watching her with a rueful half-smile. Up close, he was even more devastating. The kind of features that made artists weep and photographers beg.

“I tried not to,” she admitted. “The tables are very close.”

Damon laughed, a real laugh that transformed his face. “They are. And Sasha is very loud when she’s angry.” He signaled a waiter for another drink. “I’m Damon.”

“I know.” Amirah felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I mean, everyone knows. You’re kind of famous.”

“Kind of.” He took a long swallow of his fresh drink. “What’s your name, kind-of-famous-person’s neighbor?”

“Amirah.”

“Amirah.” He said it like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue. “Beautiful. Fits you.”

She should have been smooth. Should have played it cool, been the sophisticated woman who belonged at galas and didn’t get flustered by movie stars. But something about his vulnerability in that moment—the way he’d been publicly abandoned, the way he was sitting alone at a table meant for two—made her drop her guard.

“Your date was awful,” she said bluntly. “I’m sorry she left you like that, but also… she was awful.”

Damon’s eyebrows shot up. Then he laughed again, louder this time. “God, you’re honest. I like that.” He slid into the empty chair beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive. “You’re right. She was awful. Has been for months. I’ve just been too busy or too scared to end it.”

“Why scared?”

He looked at her for a long moment, something shifting in his dark eyes. “Because being alone in this city, in this industry, is terrifying. Everyone wants something from you. Everyone has an angle. Sometimes awful feels better than lonely.”

Amirah understood that more than she wanted to admit. She’d spent years surrounded by people who wanted things from her—her time, her attention, her body—and had learned to keep everyone at arm’s length. It was safer that way. Easier.

But something about Damon made her want to be unsafe.

“Maybe you don’t have to be alone tonight,” she heard herself say. “Maybe awful’s date just opened up a spot for someone who doesn’t want anything except to make you feel less lonely.”

Damon’s breath caught. He studied her face, searching for something—the angle, probably. The catch. When he didn’t find it, something in his posture softened.

“Amirah,” he said quietly, “I don’t even know your last name.”

“Good. Then you can’t Google me.” She smiled, letting some of her boldness show through. “I’m just a girl in a beautiful dress who thinks you deserve better than being abandoned at a gala. That’s all.”

The silence between them stretched, filled with the murmur of the party and the distant clink of glasses. Then Damon reached out and took her hand.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where?”

“Somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can talk without an audience.” He nodded toward the sea of phones and curious glances. “I’m used to this. You shouldn’t have to be.”

Amirah let him lead her through the crowd, past the famous faces and curious stares, out onto a terrace that overlooked the city. The night air was cool against her skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy ballroom. Below them, a million lights flickered like earthbound stars.

“Thank you,” Damon said, leaning against the railing. “For being real. For seeing me as a person instead of a photo op.”