She’s completely lost in the fantasy, two fingers thrusting in and out of her pussy deeply as she grinds the heel of her hand against her clit. My hand strokes up and down my shaft, my breath coming in rough bursts as her body shakes, her breasts quivering and flushing a deeper pink.

  “Fuck me, Autumn. Feel me fucking you . . . driving deep into you, claiming you . . . making you mine forever,” I grunt, nearing my climax. Watching her pleasure herself is just too hot, and my hand loses the rhythm, moving uncontrollably as my balls churn.

  I stare at the screen. “Come, Princesse.”

  Autumn jams her free forearm in her mouth to stifle her climactic cry, and I explode, ropes of hot cream splattering on my chest as we come together.

  We’re both panting, recovering slowly as our eyes lock. “I wish I were there to touch you,” I tell her hungrily.

  “Holy fuck,” she finally says. “I don’t know if I could take any more.” Her smile is soft and satisfied, but . . .

  “You could take more. Come more . . . if I were there. I can be there in minutes.” Even after just coming, I want her still. I will never tire of her and will always want her.

  “No,” Autumn says, and my brows jump in surprise. “I’m done. It really has been a long day, and now I want to drift off into blissed-out sleep.”

  I scan her face but find no deception. She seems truly relaxed and happy, much different from the worried, fired-up Autumn who answered the phone earlier.

  “Are you sure?” I tease. “I think you’d sleep better in the embrace of my arms, that luscious ass of yours cradling my cock.”

  “Hmm,” she hums thoughtfully. “That does sound good, but I need to pass out so tonight’s show can leak out of my ear while I sleep. That way, I can start next week fresh. Okay?”

  “Leak out of your ear?” I repeat, laughing at what I presume is an expression and not literally what’s going to happen.

  She nods, looking proud of herself. “Yep.”

  I pull the phone closer to my face. “Okay, but I don’t want all of tonight to disappear. I want this, you and me, as a memory.”

  “What does that mean?” she asks, her eyes dancing with interest.

  “Wipe your cream with your panties and save them for me.” I’m not sure how she’ll feel about the idea, but so far, she’s been as willing to play as I am.

  Autumn bites her lip, picking up her panties and holding them high. “These? But what would you use them for?” she asks, faking innocence.

  I drop my voice, lewdly telling her exactly what I intend. “I’m going to smell them while I jack off, thinking of you. I’m going to wrap that silk around my cock and use it to stroke myself so I can pretend it’s your silken walls gripping me tightly.”

  Her breath catches, and then I think she’s doing what I’ve asked because it looks like her hand is moving off-screen. Either that, or she’s started rubbing herself again.

  “You too,” she tells me. “I want a memento.”

  I pick up my undershirt from the coffee table where I discarded it and swipe it over my chest. “I think you’ve got a new nightgown, Princesse.” I hold it up so she can see. “I’ll come by in the morning, bring you coffee, and we can exchange gifts.”

  “I’d like that,” Autumn says almost shyly.

  She keeps me on my toes, going from soft and compliant with my demands to fiery and bold with her sharp comebacks and then flip-flopping between the confident woman who struck out on her own with little to no support to the woman who needs reassurance that she is more than a salacious fuck for me. One thing is certain, life with Autumn will never be boring.

  I smile, realizing that I’m thinking not only long-term with her, but truly forever.

  “I’ll be there at eight.”

  “Hell no, make it ten. I’m crashing out and deserve a full night’s sleep.” She yawns as she says it, though I suspect it’s overdramatized for effect.

  “Not a morning person, I take it. Noted.” I feign scribbling notes in an invisible notebook as she laughs. “So you know, I’m up at six every day. I have to be or Xerxes will jump on my chest like he’s doing doggie CPR to revive me. Little bastard just wants breakfast, though. He’s not actually concerned with me.”

  That’s only partially true. He did do the CPR stunt once or twice, but thankfully, I was able to stop that power play on his part by blowing a bit of morning breath his way. Now, he just barks until I get him breakfast.

  “I’m sure he’s worried!” Autumn exclaims before accurately explaining, “That you’re going to die in your sleep and he won’t have someone to feed him. He’s out for number one. You’re just the means to an end, I’m afraid.” She juts her bottom lip out, pouting though I’m not sure if it’s because Xerxes is so Machiavellian or that I’m too stupid to realize that he’s playing me.

  I’m well aware of both.

  I chuckle. “Also noted. I’ll see you at ten, then?”

  She nods. “Simon?” When I meet her eyes, she ducks her chin before looking up at me through her lashes. “Thank you.”

  “Always.”

  “Did you just quote Harry Potter to me?” she squeals a bit too loudly. An instant later, there’s a banging on either the wall or the ceiling of her apartment. “Sorry!” she yells out, equally loud.

  “It’s my unbreakable vow. I’m here for you, with you. In front of you, beside you, or behind you . . . wherever the situation calls for, or wherever you want me,” I tell her solemnly.

  I mean every word. I’ve always felt alone, even after Jacqueline adopted me, but for the first time in my life, I feel like one part of a whole. Autumn and I are . . . us. And that heals a yearning I’ve had in my gut my entire life.

  “Good night, Simon,” she tells me softly, her hand pressed to her chest and her eyes looking glassy.

  “Good night.” She blows me a kiss, and though it feels a bit silly, I act as though I catch it and press the captured kiss to my cheek. She’s smiling happily as we hang up.

  Surprisingly, after a quick shower and pushing Xerxes off my bed, where he tried to claim my pillow, I do sleep well.

  CHAPTER 21

  AUTUMN

  Monday morning comes too soon, but the five of us, or the ‘Fab Five’, as Molly has dubbed us, are standing at attention in the workroom. We’re waiting impatiently for the entourage to come in and put us out of our misery by telling us what this week’s theme is going to be.

  We’ve been throwing out ideas for the last thirty minutes. Everything from ‘Artwork of the Louvre’, which is reasonable and something we could all work with, to the less likely ideas, like ‘Old Lady Redux, part 3,178’ and ‘Space: The Final Frontier’.

  Molly already called dibs on everything silver in the fabric room if the space suggestion comes true. But I’m praying it doesn’t. I find anything hyper-futuristic on a short path toward looking incredibly dated.

  “What do you think the theme is going to be?” Yori asks nervously, rebooting our conversation again. “Hopefully, something we all feel comfortable with.”

  Katarina snorts. “Like what? I don’t think there’s a theme in existence that we would all go” —she pumps her fists in the air, doing some version of a celebration dance— “woo-hoo!”

  The door opens, and Jacqueline, apparently hearing just enough to cause her face to pucker, says, “I hope that is not the case, though if you’re finding the themes to be problematic, you are welcome to leave.”

  Katarina drops her arms, chastised. “Of course not, Madame Corbin. We’re simply excited to discover this week’s theme.” She then holds her hand out, giving Jacqueline the floor.

  I swear to God, Katarina is cool as a cucumber, no matter what. I would be choking on my tongue and stuttering out a nonsensical answer, but Katarina makes it seem as though Jacqueline was the one who interrupted her. I wonder if she’s got a custom leather bag to carry those balls of steel in. If not, she needs one. Maybe with a special pocket for her flask?

  “Well,” Jacqueline sniffs. “In that case, let’s discuss this week’s theme. Shall we?” She pulls on the hem of her dusty mauve jacket, adjusting it over the matching wide-legged pants in a ‘how dare she?’ sort of move.

  Jacqueline looks to Albert, and for the first time, I’m able to scope out the whole entourage. Albert stands to Jacqueline’s side as always, looking more former bouncer than bitch boy in his head-to-toe black, but he nods deferentially to her like the highness she thinks she is. Next to Albert is Tobias, who has his arms behind his back and is dressed impeccably, this time in a pair of what I suspect are vintage tweed trousers and a sharp rust-colored button-down. He’s added matching cordovan loafers and belt and a large ivory-face watch. If I could offer him a clap of fashion appreciation, I would do so in a heartbeat.

  Next to Tobias is Simon. I try to keep my eyes moving, not staying locked on him for too long, but I can’t help it. We had a private breakfast in my apartment yesterday morning, using my bed as a picnic space and then for its intended purpose. And I don’t mean sleep. So it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’ve seen him, but I feel the need to touch him, kiss him, greet him in some way other than standing here acting like I don’t know his deepest secrets and darkest desires.

  He's wearing a three-piece black suit with a Wedgewood blue shirt that’s open at the neck. I also know that he has one extra button closed because there are fingernail scratches on his chest and a tiny bite mark on his shoulder again. I don’t have any bruises from yesterday, but let’s say I won’t be sitting down too much today.

  I smile politely, making sure the friendliness extends down the entire line of the entourage.

  “We have something exciting to present today. Along with the next show’s theme, I would like to extend an invitation to each of you.”

  That gets all of our attention, and we basically lean forward like Jacqueline is holding out bacon and we’re hungry dogs.

  “Our annual fundraising gala is this weekend, and you are invited, of course. It’s an opportunity for you to rub elbows with the people who are judging you, or in the future, possibly buying from you. Much like the after-show cocktail hours, but on a grander scale. This type of opportunity can make or break your career.”

  She lets the weight of that sit on our already overloaded shoulders.

  “Consider the gala a bit of multi-tasking. A designer always has to sell themselves while simultaneously creating.” She smirks. “But despite what you may have heard” —she looks directly at me, and I straighten even though I was already standing to my full height— “I am not a monster. My intention is to give you two weeks this time. Use the time wisely to create your own piece to wear for the gala, as well as your best collection yet for the next theme, which is . . .”

  Molly, crazy woman that she is, bends down and starts drumming on her thighs. “Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum,” she sings along with her self-made percussion.

  “Amour. Love, in all its incarnations,” Jacqueline reveals after giving Molly a snooty glare. “Having two weeks is a luxury, so I will expect to see excellence, in both design and execution. Any questions?”

  Minds already whirling, we all shake our heads. As the entourage leaves, Simon looks back. He doesn’t smile, that would be too obvious, but I can see the glimmer in his eyes as they meet mine. Heat rushes to my cheeks, both sets, as I turn away and head to my worktable.

  “I need to sketch!” I announce needlessly to the room, though everyone else is already hunched over their tablet or sketchbook. “My brain is like” —I make a tornado around my head with my hands, swirling them wildly— “whoosh . . .”

  “Me too!” Molly says. “I mean, love? Come on! That’s like a softball pitch if ever I heard one.”

  Beatrice sighs huffily. “I think I’m going to the fabric room for inspiration . . . and quiet.”

  Oops, I guess Molly and I are being too loud and disruptive in our excitement. “Sorry, Bea!”

  She gives us a no-big-deal wave before disappearing down the hall.

  Yori stands, stretching. “I think I’m going to sketch outside today. Maybe by the Eiffel Tower. See if I can catch a proposal as inspiration.” She packs up her things and leaves.

  “That’s a great idea. I think I’m going to get out of here today too. Later this week, we’re all going to be chained to the sewing machines, so I’m getting out while I can.” I pack my tablet in my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

  “Be good!” Molly calls after me. “Or really good at being bad.”

  The week has flown by in a flurry of sketching, drawing out patterns, cutting out fabrics, sewing bits and baubles together, and then fitting the final pieces. All mixed in with a few dates with Simon. We’re careful about being seen now, opting for dinners at his place and drives through the city in a nondescript luxury sedan, not his eye-grabbing Bugatti.

  But we did go for one more visit to the Dungeon.

  With all the hard work and hard play, I’m not even half done for the fashion show yet. But luckily, I am finished with my dress for tonight’s fundraising gala.

  I’m thrilled with how everything’s turned out as I slip into it. My makeup is sultry, and it only took me thirty minutes to successfully apply without racoon eye smudges—winning!—and I’ve pulled my hair up into a loose, messy updo that, coupled with the strapless gown, leaves my shoulders bare. The pearlescent black gown is my spin on a little black dress, though amped up to a Jessica Rabbit degree. There’s a slit up the thigh that comes within inches of the thin side of my thong, and the structure inside the top securely holds my breasts in place—if high and tight was ‘a place’ to hold them. I walk the small space of my apartment in the five-inch heels I’ve selected, making sure that I’m steady, and with a grin of victory, I head out to the gala.

  Back home, I would be labeled scandalous anywhere other than on a red carpet. Here in Paris, in fashion? Slightly tame . . . but enough to cocktease the hell out of Simon tonight.

  The quick ride in the hired car—because even steady and sure in my heels, I cannot walk the streets—is a time for me to calm and center myself. I practice my ready-to-go speech of my style, design aesthetic, and hopes for my future in the fashion industry. I review the growing number of French phrases I’ve learned. In between, I look around at the sights of Paris, still in disbelief in some ways that I’m here, that this is my life after starting out in little old Newton.

  If only Mom could see me now!

  Soon, we come upon the site of tonight’s event, a Seventeenth-Century villa that’s been turned into a luxury hotel near the Palace des Vosges. How a former royal villa survived four hundred and some odd years of French history, including at least two revolutions, two world wars, and countless other things, is truly a mystery . . . but whatever the case, the hotel is breathtaking.

  And Lady Jacqueline knows how to throw an event for sure. From the red-carpet entrance, complete with journalists covering the gala for the society pages, to the rich garden that’s been set up with refreshments and roving waiters with little bits of food that straddle the line between hors d'oeuvres and amuse bouches, it’s spot on.

  But nothing can prepare me for the main event, the grand ballroom. It’s true royal styling on a level I’ve never seen, with three enormous chandeliers that cast little diamond sparkles of light around the room. The white walls and black marble tile floor glimmer with that hint of understated elegance that only truly opulent places can pull off.

  The assembled group is equally high-class, with the men in either elegant evening suits or full-on tuxedos and the women in gowns ranging from the super daring—I see more than one barely blurred nipple—to classic gowns that would have looked right at home when Bardot sipped Dom here in the sixties.

  Tobias approaches, the other four designers in tow. “Ah, the gang’s all here!” he says brightly. “Which makes me the luckiest man in the room.”

  I scan the others’ gowns. “Wow! You all look amazing,” I praise honestly. It’s interesting to see everyone’s take on a gala gown. Somehow, though completely different, we all shine in our own ways.

  “You too,” Molly snaps back. “Do a little spin and show Momma what you’re working with.” She twirls a finger in the air, and smiling, I do a model-like turn to show her the back of my gown. “Ka-chow!” she says, flashing finger guns at me. “You are the McQueen, Lightning!”

  I totally get her play on words, but the others look a little confused. “Champagne?” Tobias asks, stopping a waiter and handing each of us a flute. “As Jacqueline mentioned, an event like this can make your career.”

  I nod, sipping my champagne as I take in the rest of the room. There are about a dozen rows of gilded gold chairs set before a podium. Flanking the podium are about two dozen or so mannequins, each of them clad in a gorgeous gown of some kind or another. I recognize a few of the designs—they seem to stretch back over the past decade or so, all of them House Corbin designs.

  “Is Madame Jacqueline cleaning out her closet?” Katarina jokes quietly, probably so no one but us can hear.

  “Most of these haven’t been worn except for the fashion show in which they debuted. A few are from Jacqueline’s personal collection and will have been worn once or twice. Even for the buyers tonight, they won’t wear them. It’s about being seen, about the bidding more than the actual dress.”

  “What happens to the dress, then?” I ask.

  “Usually, it becomes a display piece in the buyer’s home or donated to a museum. Or sometimes, simply donated back to House Corbin for ‘storage’,” he confides, adding finger quotes.

  “Ah, donations,” Katarina repeats, “the rich’s word for funny money.”

  Tobias doesn’t disagree, adding, “At least the bids from this evening go to a good cause. Though most of these people wouldn’t care if the funds went to an orphanage, a hospital, the homeless, or to put a fresh coat of paint on the parking lot of Paris Disneyland. It simply doesn’t matter to them.”