Men are invariably easier to order when they fantasize about f&$%ing you.

Hey y’all. My designer is working on the cover, and I’m working on the first installment in my Asian romance series. Picking up where last week left off, in this unedited snippet we find our heroine Sinna in South Korea hard at work working her new K-pop clients. Continuing my K-drama visual theme, here’s a picture of Song Joong Ki just ‘cuz he’s pretty. Don’t get too far down the rabbit hole, he’s married. *winks*

Sinna felt the first stirring of excitement when she walked into the restaurant and saw the 501K boys for the first time. For one thing, they weren’t boys. Their ages ranged from 26 to 34, but the old costuming had skewed very very young. That was a huge mistake. This was prime, extremely sexy male flesh, and she was about to exploit the shit out of it.

They were even better looking in person than in pictures and videos – thank everything. She’d asked them to come in without makeup so she could see exactly what she was dealing with. God bless Korean skincare and good genes. To a man, these young bucks were practically poreless.

“Well, well,” said a very interested Saint. “Our job just got a whole lot easier.”

“You are not to fuck any of them, Saint. I mean it.”

“Fine as they are, I make no promises.”

She glared at her cousin, who grinned and winked.

Once the bowing was finished and everyone had taken their seat, the waiter started bringing out the food. Mr. Big Wig had commissioned a translator for the meeting to ensure there were no misunderstandings. He kicked things off with a formal welcome, exhortations to the members to listen to this skilled American costume design expert and give her every cooperation.

On cue and uber chic in her monochromatic canary yellow outfit with long sleeves, an asymmetrical neckline and splits up the calf on capri pant legs, Sinna stood and bowed.

“Thank you, sir. It’s a great pleasure to meet you and to come to South Korea to work with such a talented and handsome group of artists. My name is Sinna Blake. These are my members,” she said, deliberately using the familiar word to describe her team.

“My cousin Saint Blake, my assistant Cressida Banks, and our colleague master tailor Jon Frank. Saint’s specialty is accessories, and Jon will lead our fitting and tailoring. Now,” she presented Big Wig with the binder. “Let me tell you about my vision for 501K.”

Sinna ran it down. She spoke slowly and clearly so the translator had time to convey her words, stopping periodically to ask if they understood. Then she asked for permission to approach them.

“I will occasionally have to touch you to dress you properly. I’ll leave most of that to Jon and Saint out of respect for our gender differences. But when I do touch you, my contact will never be inappropriate. And if anything makes you uncomfortable please do not hesitate to tell me.”

Permission granted, she rose from her seat, approaching each member with a wink and a smile. She gestured to their faces, touched shoulders, brushed hair back from foreheads, lifted chins and generally turned them into living props. She knew they found her attractive, tension, quickly held breaths, and wiggling Adam’s apples were crystal clear signals that she ruthlessly ignored as she dropped a few soft but firm instructions into the hairdresser’s ear.

She could already tell that one was gonna be a problem, but that was one of the conditions when she took the gig – she got final approval on all hair color changes as well as the makeup palette. There would be no more neon or striped hair color combos on the wrong skin tones, and those bullshit ass mullets and blood red lips were out. Who gave a shit for trends when your clients looked ridiculous?

The little touch and tease session she did during the meeting was deliberate. Men, women, Sinna could care less. She’d play – gently – anyone at any time to get what she wanted. And she did just that as she relayed her plans with a polite, pale pink wash to tone things down for Korean sensibilities.

She needed them malleable, and men were invariably easier to order when they fantasized about fucking you. At this point all Bik, Cong, Tan, Hua and Hyuk were to her were breathing mannequins. Her job was to make them look fabulous, and she would.

“I don’t make the rules,” she often said. “But I understand them, and I play to win.”