“She told me I was slow AF . . . and I thought she meant go slow, as friends. I agreed, saying we were on the same page and that I was really looking forward to Friday.”

  Autumn stares for a long beat and then breaks out laughing. “Seriously? You have to be bullshitting me, but if you are, it’s a great joke.”

  I grin and don’t answer, glad she hasn’t saw that TikTok and leaving her to wonder. I shift conversation again, feeding delicacies to Autumn. Watching her wrap her lips around the succulent morsels is foreplay in itself, and more than once I wish that I were a piece of asparagus or a bite of chicken. Or that she was hungry for a ‘man muffin’.

  By the time our last course comes, a creme caramel that Chez Madeleine is famous for, I’m completely enamored with her. “Fini?”

  “Oui,” Autumn says with a saucy grin at her use of French.

  “You are getting better already. Shall we?” I stand, offering her my elbow, which she takes gently. The valet has brought my car around, and I hold the door as Autumn gets in. Pulling away from the curb, I ask, “Can I show you something?”

  “Is it your dick?” Her tone is teasing, but she lowers her chin, glaring at me from beneath her lashes.

  “If you’d like. But I was thinking Paris would be more appropriate.” I chuckle lightly, though, “Is that what American men are like? Dinner and dick?”

  She rolls her eyes, “If only. They’re a million times worse. They’ll send you a message on a dating app in the middle of the night that’s basically ‘wanna fuck?’ and if you don’t respond near instantly with pictures of your already spread legs, they move on to the next match. And if you do respond, you go into it knowing it’s just to get him off. Most of the guys don’t care about whether or not you do or if they’re even capable of it. It’s all selfish, instant gratification with no follow-up.”

  I look over at her, horrified. “That is not dating. That is not even fucking. That is . . . épouvantable.” When she lifts her brows, I remember my English, “Appalling.”

  She shrugs and confides, “That’s why I don’t date much.”

  “You deserve to be pursued, your body cherished, and your mind celebrated. When we fuck, my sole desire will be to make you come until you are fully satisfied, physically and mentally. I promise this.”

  “Holy shit,” she whispers. “Maybe you can show me your dick. Like pull over or something. Or is sex in public a felony in Paris?” She looks gobsmacked, her face vacant but her eyes glassy and full of desire.

  I reach over, placing my hand at the back of her neck and threading my fingers through the locks there. “It is illegal, unfortunately. But perhaps soon, in a place more private,” I suggest. “First, Paris.”

  I lean over, giving her a kiss, so quick she doesn’t get a chance to pucker, before returning my eyes to the nearly deserted road.

  True to my word, I show her my city, watching her glazed over eyes become alight with fresh excitement at every turn. I drive slowly, letting her take her time as she absorbs the sights of the Champs Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, the Palais Garnier, and more. We drive past the Louvre, Invalides, and then to Pigalle to see the Moulin Rouge.

  We drive for hours, mostly quiet other than the tour guide info I can remember and Autumn’s gasping reactions to every sight.

  “What’s that?” Autumn asks, pointing out the window as we leave the bright, glamorous areas.

  “All of Paris is not lights and beauty. Like many cities, there is ugliness and sadness as well,” I tell her quietly. “That’s a shanty development, with makeshift homes for dozens of people. They are somewhat fortunate, not alone on the streets like many, but it’s a very small improvement.”

  Melancholy washes over her face. “There are lots of unhoused people in New York too. I see them on the streets, sleeping in alleys, begging for food, desperate for help. There are organizations that try—soup kitchens, mobile shower units, placement assistance—but there are so many people.”

  “Paris is better than some, and there are many volunteer groups here as well. But still,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “people die on the streets every year. Some say it’s because of migrant camps and ‘outsiders’. But it’s not true. That’s only one piece of the problem. The costs of living are rising faster than wages, and people with good jobs are being forced out on the street. Families . . . women . . . children.”

  “It’s the same at home. Oh!” Autumn exclaims, her face paling as we pass a young child who’s scurried out with his young, haggard mother. “This is awful.”

  I want to stop and help the child, his family . . . but know there’s little I can do right now. “I wish it wasn’t this way,” I tell her as we drive away. “It’s what’s wrong with the world.”

  Autumn turns to look at me, tilting her head to the side. “You surprise me. You are rich, and your aunt is one of the most famous designers in Europe. I mean, no offense . . . but it seems like you could do something.”

  I swallow thickly. “It’s not merely a money issue, though. They need support, from the street level all the way up. I do help as much as I can, where I feel I can make a difference.” I consider telling her about my time with the guys from the children’s home, but I don’t want to betray their trust in me. They’re not pawns for this conversation.

  She looks out the window with a fuller appreciation of Paris, both the beautiful and the ugly. “Why this issue?”

  I don’t need to speak of the parkour guys to share my story. “I relate to them in a small way,” I tell her, keeping my eyes on the road in front of us so I don’t see the inevitable look of pity. “I was alone, abandoned by my mother. Without my aunt, I could’ve possibly ended up like some of these people. I don’t remember that time, thankfully, but Jacqueline has reminded me of what she did for me my whole childhood.”

  “What? I didn’t know that,” she says in surprise.

  I take a deep breath, steadying my racing heart. “Not many do. It’s not that I hide it, exactly, but I don’t speak of it either.”

  Autumn reaches over, placing her hand on my thigh comfortingly. “Simon . . . you don’t need to, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  Pain clenches in my chest, and I know I want to tell her. But at the same time . . . the stories Jacqueline have told me are heavy, and tonight has been a lot already. “Not now. I . . . not yet.”

  Quiet fills the car, and for a minute we say nothing. There’s only the rumbling of the engine and the tires on the road, Autumn’s hand on my thigh, and the sound of our breathing. Finally, she speaks again. “Thank you for showing me this.”

  I nod, feeling in control again. As we head back toward Autumn’s apartment, I shift the conversation to something lighter. “I know we said we would discuss work, but we can go over the edits another time.”

  “No . . . I want to see more,” Autumn declares.

  I don’t understand her, so I ask, “More of what?”

  She clears her throat and moves her hand one small inch higher on my thigh. “You.”

  I turn at the next intersection, heading not toward her apartment . . . but mine.

  CHAPTER 12

  AUTUMN

  I saw Paris, in her most beautiful and in her most desperate. The image of a young child climbing out of a cardboard box shelter while the lights from the Eiffel Tower were illuminating the night will sit with me for the rest of my life.

  I’m also completely thrown by what Simon shared about his own life. I did my homework on House Corbin and never read a single thing about how Simon ended up with his aunt. And certainly not anything that would make me think he’d have a soft spot for people in need.

  I feel like my preconceived notions of both Paris and Simon have been shattered. But rather than that being a loss, I think it’s a good thing. I didn’t realize that my vision was so fogged over and hazy until I saw things more clearly tonight.

  And like Paris, I want to learn more about Simon.

  I’m quiet as he puts the pedal to the metal, contemplating. The wind ruffles my hair as we reach a neighborhood that, on the surface, looks much like the ones we just left. It’s only when you look at the details, like the total lack of garbage on the streets and of course, no signs of unhoused people, that I realize this area is very upper class.

  Simon hits a button, and a gate rolls up on a parking area next to an older building, and he pulls in to park. He puts the top up and silently offers me his arm as we enter, taking a rather regular elevator up to the top floor.

  Upstairs, I stop him. “Before we go in, I want you to know . . . I’m not sleeping with you.”

  Rather than being upset or pressuring me, he laughs. “I didn’t ask you to, but . . .” He moves in closer to me, the weight of his body not touching me but feeling heavy, nonetheless. “It’s good to know where your mind is.”

  I duck out from under his suggestive gaze, and he moves to open the door. “Here we are, ladies first.”

  The apartment, or penthouse, or whatever this is, isn’t at all what I expected. I figured a guy like Simon would be all cutting edge, modern and hard, glam and cold. Instead, it’s more natural, with wood and brick, plaster and paint.

  It’s like an extremely upsized version of my current apartment, and I can’t help but smile at the charming feel of his home. “Wow, this is—”

  My words are cut off as a flying ball of fur comes across the floor, aiming straight for my legs, with loud yips that sound like ‘I’m going to kill you.’ I panic, stumbling as I take several steps back. Unfortunately, there’s a door behind me which stops my backward progress, but my feet don’t get that message and continue backpedaling crazily to get away. In the wild kicks of my scurrying feet, I end up catching the little dog in the chest, sending it flying backward.

  “Arf!” it barks.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” I cry in horror as Simon steadies me, keeping me from hitting the floor. “I didn’t mean to yeet your dog across the room!”

  “Yeet?” Simon echoes as he rushes over to his dog, who looks a little dazed but otherwise unhurt. He scoops it up, and it promptly growls at me. “Quiet, Xerxes.”

  “Yeet,” I repeat, approaching carefully with my hand out so the dog can sniff me. “It means like to punt or throw.”

  “Ah,” Simon says, scratching Xerxes behind the ears before tapping him on the head with two fingers when he growls at me again, this time lifting his lip to show tiny white teeth. “Well, this is Xerxes, my littlest friend and the biggest reason my apartment is never clean. Xerxes, this is Autumn, who is very beautiful. So be nice.”

  “He’s um . . . friendly. Cute.”

  “He thinks he’s an emperor,” Simon explains with a chuckle, “and I’m the sole inhabitant of his empire. He does have a bit of a temper, but he’ll warm up to you.”

  Simon puts Xerxes down, who gives me a wary look as he walks around me, giving me a wide berth as though afraid I’m going to punt him across the room again. “I’m sorry, Xerxes. I hope you can forgive me?”

  He sniffs and walks on, his nose in the air and booty wiggling left and right.

  Simon picks up a folder from the kitchen counter. “Would you like to see the proofs from the shoot?”

  “That sounds good.”

  We sit on the couch as he spreads the 8x10s out across the coffee table. No matter what I look at, my eyes return to Simon, his strength and potency leaping from the photos. Regardless of the outfit, regardless of the pose, he makes it all look sexy as hell.

  Because he’s sexy as hell. These could be photos of him in a brown paper bag and my nipples would still get hard. And the ones of him in the open shirt, staring at me off-set? I think I’m pregnant just from the picture alone.

  Finally, I cup my cheeks with my hands, shaking my head. “I can’t decide! They’re all too good.”

  “Non, non, you can do it,” Simon says encouragingly. “You’re thinking about it too much. Go with your gut. Which ones do your eyes return to repeatedly?”

  That actually helps because while I want to look at them all—maybe plaster my apartment walls with them like TeenBeat magazine centerfolds—there are a few that I keep looking back to. I touch them quickly, calling them off. “Two, thirty-four, and forty.”

  Simon lifts his brows and picks up the three I’ve selected. “Okay. Good choices.”

  “That’s it?” I ask. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but his response feels a bit anticlimactic for the pressure to select correctly I was feeling.

  “Yes. I’ll send these and a few others to the photo department for retouching. Jacqueline will sign off on them, and then they’ll go back to Vogue Italia for publication.”

  Rolling my eyes, I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, is that all?”

  Simon laughs at my sarcasm. “Just another day in the fashion industry. You should get used to it. It’s going to be your life as well.”

  I can’t help but blush at the certainty in his voice. A compliment like that, the support it implies, is priceless to me. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “You’re welcome, Autumn.”

  Our eyes lock, and I think he’s going to kiss me. I even peek my tongue out to wet my lips as they part. His gaze drops, following the movement and reading the invitation there.

  He stands suddenly, and for a second he sounds as shaky as I feel. “Champagne. To celebrate.”

  When he disappears into the kitchen, I sit there in stunned silence. Did he just run away from me? What the hell happened to ‘let me worship you’?

  A moment later, he returns with a bottle and two glasses. He makes quick and practiced work of opening and pouring the champagne. Handing me one, he sits down next to me again.

  I lift my glass, declaring, “To popping my fashion director cherry!”

  Simon clinks his glass against mine and we sip in unison. I watch closely as he sets his glass down and leans back, placing his arms along the back of the couch with his knees spread slightly. He looks utterly at ease. “I know what that means, you know.”

  “You do?” I ask, surprised. I set my glass down on the coffee table too, making sure to avoid the folder of proofs.

  Simon reaches up, loosening the knot of his tie and pulling it free. He lets it fall to his lap, then undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. I’m not sure whether I want him to stop or keep going. “It’s an American idiom for losing one’s virginity.”

  I nearly choke on my own spit. “Uh, yeah. But it can mean other things too. Whatever you’re doing for the first time.” My fingers have found the soft silk of his tie, tracing the point.

  “Would you like to do other things for the first time?” he asks me. His voice is rough, deeper than usual.

  Do I? If we keep going, I know what’ll happen. We’ll kiss again . . . we’ll get out of our clothes . . . I’m going to want him to fuck me with the thick cock I know he has.

  Can I deal with the consequences of that choice?

  Or should I just tell him I’ve had a bit too much to drink, my thinking is clouded, and get a cab back to my apartment? But honestly, I’m stone cold sober. It’s been hours since my last sip of wine with dinner, and the one taste of champagne wasn’t nearly as bubbly as my own belly is. But those bubbles are from excitement.

  And lust.

  I look into his eyes, searching for any doubts, but find none. I search my own heart and find a desire for adventure, a hope for something I will take with me as a special memory.

  “I would. What do you have in mind?” I ask coyly, still fidgeting with his tie.

  “Alexa, play meditation playlist,” he intones, and music with a pulsing thrum starts. The music is low, intimate, pure bedroom music. But behind it is the distinct pulsing beat that alternates between my left and right ears of so-called binaural tones, and while they might just be pure hype, the warm pink glow that rises inside me isn’t.

  “I like this.” I tilt my head, listening closely.

  “Autumn,” Simon says, getting my attention. “Do you trust me?”

  I don’t know. I mean, I only met him days ago and not under the best circumstances. And there’s the whole fashion competition. But that’s not truly what he’s asking. He wants to make sure that in this moment, I have faith that he has my best interests at heart, that he only wants to give me pleasure. That I do believe. “Yes, I do.”

  His pupils get larger, nearly obliterating the warm brown of his irises. He picks up the tie from his lap and tells me, “Hold still.”

  It takes me a split second to realize what he’s going to do, but as he covers my eyes with the silk fabric and ties it behind my head, I don’t feel any concern. I feel excited.

  My other senses sharpen. I can hear my heart racing in time with the music. I can smell the champagne and Simon’s cologne. I feel the leather of the couch.

  Simon leans in. I can’t see him, but I feel his closeness, and then his lips press to mine. I kiss him back, but he keeps the slow pace, reconnecting us physically and giving me time to adjust to the onslaught of sensations.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in tighter, and only then does he deepen the kiss. His hand cups my jaw, guiding me to lift my chin, and he lays a line of kisses toward my ear. “I can’t wait to taste you,” he growls into my ear, and a shiver works its way down my spine.

  I nod, and his hands trace up my legs, over my hips and ribs before he finds the zipper at my side. Carefully, he draws it down before running his hands up, sliding my dress off my shoulders and easing it down my body.

  He brushes a gentle stroke over the globe of each breast, tracing the line where skin and lace meet, and whispers, “Beautiful.” Each touch is electric, leaving a line of tingles in the wake of his fingertips. By the time his hands reach my waist again, I’m almost shaking with desire.

  “Please,” I whisper, although I’m not sure what I’m asking for. Just . . . more. “Please.”

  Simon says nothing, or if he does, I can’t hear it over the soft music and its teasing, arousing pulse. Instead, he lifts my hips and slides my dress off, leaving me in just my bra and panties. He even slips my heels off and chuckles when I wiggle my toes.