She whimpers beneath me, squirming as I slip a hand over her hip and find her clit. “Yes . . .”

  “Say it,” I rasp. When she’s quiet except for her moans of pleasure, I lay a soft swat to her pussy, right over her clit. “Say it.”

  “Yours. I’m . . . yours.”

  “Good girl,” I growl, patting her clit in tempo with my strokes. “Mine. Nobody touches you but me. No one.”

  She echoes my words, “No one touches me. Just you.”

  I lean forward, nipping her earlobe between my teeth. “And no one touches me but you. You are mine, and I am yours.”

  I think she likes that because I feel flutters start inside her, the walls of her pussy squeezing down on me as she gets slicker. The sounds of our fucking grow obscene, filling the small closet with panting breath, low moans, the swats to her clit, and the wet thrusts into Autumn. If anyone walks by the closed door, there would be no doubt about what’s happening here.

  But I don’t care.

  I have Autumn impaled on my cock, agreeing that she’s mine and I’m hers. There could be nothing better.

  This isn’t long, slow lovemaking. This is primal rutting, an intense joining that belies the emotions running below the surface, which are muted by the immediacy of our need. This intensity can’t last forever, but it doesn’t need to. In what feels like moments, Autumn is trembling on the edge for me, and my thrusts get rougher, my grunts louder.

  “Come on my cock, Princesse. Do it now,” I demand. “Cover me with your honey and make me yours.”

  “Yes,” she moans as her body spasms, jerking wildly.

  I grip her hips hard, fighting to stay inside her as the squeezes of her pussy trigger my own orgasm. I explode, my cream filling her. I bend forward, covering her body with my own and gripping her hair to rumble in her ear . . . “Mine.”

  She nods, the movement probably pulling her hair a bit, but she’s agreeing. “Yours.”

  We ride out the aftershocks together, and when we both sag, Autumn giggles unexpectedly. “Did we really just fuck in a supply closet?”

  I grin, looking around us at the stacks of towels and cleaning supplies, and on the far right, there’s a mop in an empty bucket. “It would appear so.”

  “Guess I can mark that off my bucket list,” she jokes. Her laughter forces me out and Autumn squeals quietly, “Ooh!” She spreads her legs a bit, and cautions, “This dress is amazing, and I’m not getting cum stains on it. Hand me a towel.”

  I laugh then and grab what ends up being a washcloth from a stack of white towels. She takes it from me, wiping herself as I grab one to clean up with too.

  “Are you okay?” Autumn asks me.

  My brow furrows. “Me? Are you okay?”

  Autumn readjusts her clothes, righting her panties and then her dress, while I do the same with my own. “Simon, I was scared. I’ll admit that, but I was more scared that you were going to take it too far than Tristan. You forget, I’m a New York girl. Riding the subway is like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. I could’ve kneed him in the nuts and was in the process of doing so when you rolled up. But I was trying to help him. He needs help.”

  “I’ve been helping him,” I argue. “Or at least I thought I was.”

  Autumn steps into me and straightens my tie, her voice soft. “You have been. But he’s on the edge of the scariest moment of his life, and you’re his barometer for success. That’s a lot of pressure on a guy like him.”

  “I was a guy like him,” I say, the anger returning.

  Autumn tilts her head, smiling gently. “No, you were an orphan, but you weren’t like Tristan. Where were you at eighteen? Walking a runway? In a fancy home with plenty of food in the pantry? Looking at a future with near limitless possibilities?”

  The truth hits me sharply. I want to help these boys and feel like I can empathize with them because fuck knows, I’ve got plenty of hang-ups from my start in life, and even when my life was significantly more golden with my aunt, it still wasn’t perfect by any stretch. But Autumn’s right, I wasn’t eighteen and facing the streets like Tristan is.

  “That doesn’t excuse what he did,” I say flatly.

  Autumn shakes her head. “Of course it doesn’t. But it puts some perspective on it.” I give her a dubious look and she says more fiercely, “I wasn’t hurt. Tristan needs help. He’s not a bad kid, not a bad man. He’s terrified.”

  “You’re too kind-hearted.” It’s one of her best traits, but it’s not a compliment right now.

  “Fair enough. But you are too, and you’re going to need to help Tristan . . . without punching him.”

  “Maybe a game of basketball?” I suggest, thinking we could work some anger out that way.

  “No. Words . . . using your words,” Autumn decrees. She’s standing tall, her head swiveling slightly and her finger held up, daring me to challenge her.

  “You’re sexy when you’re bossy.” The compliment doesn’t change her mind, and she lifts one brow. “Fine,” I say, agreeing despite feeling like a conversation with Tristan isn’t going to help in the slightest.

  A Monday morning meeting is no one’s idea of a great start to the week. At least today’s meeting should be relatively quick, with a simple report on the smashing success of the fundraising gala.

  House Corbin is technically a corporation and is therefore governed by the incorporation laws of France and the EU, but that’s in name only. The board isn’t the power here. Jacqueline Corbin is, as evidenced by her position at the head of the conference room table for this morning’s meeting. Even her chair is different, a black leather wingback chair more akin to a throne than a simple meeting chair.

  Of course, part of what annoys me about these meetings is that I’m seated at the extreme far end of the table, not completely opposite my aunt, but at the foot on her left side. After all, while I’m a senior executive, I’m not technically a board member. So I get to sit in an inferior position to fools like Venerable, who’s being his normal sniveling ass.

  “While the charity event was good for publicity, was it the most effective use of House Corbin funds and resources?” he says with a doubtful look as my aunt concludes the report to the board describing the event.

  In one night, we brought in almost ten million euros for the orphanage. It’s enough to not only fund their operations for the rest of the year, but also to do some much needed renovations to the property.

  That’s not enough for Venerable, of course.

  “I wonder, what would you have suggested we do otherwise?” I ask snidely.

  “I . . . right off the top of my head, I’m not exactly sure,” Venerable stammers.

  Seriously? He’s calling the gala an ineffective use of resources but has zero ideas of an alternative. He wants to call out so-called problems with no attempts or ideas to solve them. He’s nothing more than a contrary, negative pessimist who wants to build himself up by knocking others down.

  Venerable continues, sticking to his script. “But while I support the idea of helping the orphanage, I wonder if perhaps it could be done more . . . efficiently?”

  Lying sack of shit.

  I start to protest, but my aunt gives me a sharp glance, and reluctantly, I shut my mouth as she decides to take this herself. “Monsieur Venerable, you raised these protests to me directly when Simon’s charity idea was first approved, and I addressed them then. We all know the saying. Good enough will often get the task accomplished while perfect is still pondering over the first stitch.”

  That’s not exactly the way I learned the maxim, but it’s close enough that everyone gets the point. I give my aunt a nod as Venerable visibly withers, and my aunt continues. “Now, as to the next order of business. The recent fashion shows connected to our young designers contest. I must say, I’m quite pleased with how much buzz I’ve gotten on the contest, both in person and in social media. I do believe I’ve created a hit.”

  I grind my teeth as my aunt takes credit for the contest in front of Venerable and the rest of the board. It seems that I’m never going to be anything more than her shadow.

  “I do have a suggestion on that front,” Venerable says. “What if we do something similar to the charity auction using the designs of these young competitors?”

  “Explain,” Jacqueline orders, and Venerable gives her a simpering smile.

  “Well, while I know that their designs would never fetch the same dollar figure as your gowns did, we could use the funds we did raise to reinvest into the company. In fact, I have a potential investment opportunity where we could expand into Southeast Asia. Maybe fund a factory there to benefit from their tax incentives.” He holds his hands out, weighing his idea. “Though the sooner we move with that, the better. Maybe we could use the funds we’ve already received for the factory and then the monies from the other designers’ pieces for the orphanage.” He hums, looking off thoughtfully as though the idea only just occurred to him. I’m certain he was working his way up to this suggestion all along.

  “Are you shitting me?” I snap, slamming my palms on the table, unable to hold back at the audacity of Venerable’s idea.

  Venerable shrugs, “It’s perfectly legal.” He sends a victorious smirk my way, intentionally hiding it from Jacqueline.

  “It’s vampirism, using money for orphans to open a sweatshop?” I seethe. “I cannot—”

  “Let’s table the idea of another fundraiser for later, and send me the information on the South Asia tax incentives,” my aunt says.

  I stand up in horrified shock, my chair rolling away.

  Jaqueline holds up a staying hand before I can protest. “And no, the most recent auction funds will not be used for anything other than the orphanage. I gave my public word on that.”

  I note that my aunt doesn’t shut Venerable down because his switcheroo idea is fucking evil. She only shut him down because it would cause her public image to take a hit if it was found out. It makes me realize something.

  There is something inherently wrong with the fashion industry in general, and House Corbin isn’t exempt. It takes advantage of the poor, paying as little as possible and sending work to sweatshops if it can, while turning around and selling those items for maximum amounts. I wonder, would the workers who assembled those gowns my aunt donated for auction have been able to buy one of them with a year’s worth of pay? Five years? Ten years? Ever?

  Never mind what they auctioned for.

  It makes me think about Autumn’s words, about how fashion needs to change. For her, fashion hurts women by setting unrealistic examples of beauty, of punishing women for not being near unattainable sizes. Fashion hurts women.

  And for me, fashion hurts the economically disadvantaged, those I hold dear to my heart.

  And what can I do about it? Nothing . . . as long as I’m not in control of House Corbin. The truth is, as long as Jacqueline is in charge, things will never change meaningfully.

  But the idea of trying to usurp my aunt tears my gut to pieces. This company is her baby, her blood, sweat, and tears poured in long before I was born. Even with all of that, she still took me in, raising me the best she could when she had no intention of motherhood.

  I need to do . . . something.

  But I don’t know what because changing things from the inside isn’t working, or isn’t working fast enough, at least.

  At the end of the meeting, my aunt signals for me to wait. I stay in my seat until the room clears before speaking. “If you want me to apologize to Venerable again, it’s not going to happen. He’s a greedy fucking snake who will see this company burn to the ground before admitting he’s too stupid to have a single intelligent idea.”

  “I’ll let it slide this time,” Jacqueline says dismissively, apparently not upset over my outburst. “To think about replacing the charity funds with . . . after I gave my word publicly? No, he needs to have his head shrunk before it is too large to fit in the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Actually, I have something for you.” She opens her leather portfolio and pulls out an ivory envelope that’s embossed with the House Corbin logo. “The check for the orphanage. I presume you would like the honors of delivering it?”

  She slides it down the table, and I capture it. For such a small thing, the envelope contains the future of Sun Orphanage. “Thank you. I will take it out immediately.”

  “Of course. But I also wanted to say something else. I got a peculiar report about your behavior at the gala . . . kissing Tobias?” Thankfully, she doesn’t seem concerned, more just curious.

  I chuckle. “His father is a homophobic ass. I wasn’t going to let my friend live a lie any longer, so I placed a big kiss on his cheek.”

  Jacqueline smiles, truly grins so widely that crow’s feet appear around her eyes. I didn’t even know her skin would still move that way. Not that I’m judging. As models, we have to do many odd things as a way to chase youthfulness and maintain marketability. A bit of Botox is the least of it.

  “How did Tobias’s father react?” she asks, sounding like she’d quite like the gossip.

  “Poorly,” I say, faking sadness. “Seems his own ego took a hit by Tobias’s sexuality. Who knew the two would be related?” I tease.

  She laughs lightly, seeming delighted. “Tobias is such a nice boy. He deserves better than that.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Speaking of deserving better,” she says, her face sobering, “you and Miss Fisher? If you are defying me and still seeing her . . . there will be consequences. For you and her.”

  “I understand,” I reply, standing up. Not that I agree, not that I admit to seeing Autumn or to accepting my aunt’s commands.

  Simply that I understand.

  Because there’s no way I’m going to stop seeing Autumn. She’s mine, I’m hers. And no matter what sort of bind I’ve put myself into, that’s not going to change.

  No matter what.

  Back in my office, I text Autumn . . .

  Busy?

  Never too busy for you. Actually, that’s not true. I’m eyeball deep in fabric, have balls of thread in my hair, and I poked myself in the thumb for the 976th time today. And in case you forgot, the show is in five days.

 

  I laugh at her response.

  Oh. Too bad. I was going to ask if you would like to go on an adventure with me today. :(

  Where?

  Does it matter?

  No. I’ll tell the Sisterhood that I’m working from home. Pick me up in an hour?

  Oui, Princesse.

  Parked on the curb outside Autumn’s apartment an hour later, I see her walking toward me and can’t help but smile. She does indeed look a bit disheveled compared to her usual tidiness, but I find it quite adorable. Her red hair is pulled up in some sort of knot, but there are strands falling by her ears and along the nape of her neck. There’s also a few escapees right above her forehead, and oddly, I feel like she’s been blowing those out of her way all day while she works. Her ankle-length pants and slim T-shirt have the slightest hint of wrinkles. I think this is truly what she was working in today.

  “Bonjour. Are you sure you have time for me today? I wouldn’t want to drag you away from something more important,” I say honestly as she climbs into my car and buckles up. If she needs to work, I can do the check delivery on my own. I only thought it would be nice to do this together.

  “I’m good. I’ll be up all night working anyway, so a little bit of a break is probably good for me. I’ll be able to hit it with fresh eyes later. So, where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I tell her with a cocky grin. “But you’ll like it.”

  She places her hands over heart and recites, “In that case, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

  I laugh as we head down the streets of Paris.

  A bit later, we pull up to the gates of the orphanage and Autumn looks over at me. “Where did you think we were going?” I ask and she blushes slightly. “Princesse, did you think we were going to the Dungeon?”

  She squirms in her seat. “Maybe, but this is better. We need to talk to Tristan.”

  I hadn’t planned on doing that today. Delivering the check is my mission, but she’s right. I need to talk to Tristan about what happened, both his actions and mine.

  “We’ll see if he’s available, but I have the check for the director. I thought you’d like to see the good work that the gala is going to do.” I pull the envelope from my jacket’s inner pocket and hand it to Autumn.

  Slowly, she takes it with a question in her eyes. “I don’t need to see it. I’m sure the House is doing right by the orphanage.”

  “You’d be surprised what they can come up with, but I want you to see.” I don’t explain, but she opens the flap of the envelope and peeks at the check.

  “Sweet Baby Yoda . . . that’s a lot of zeroes.”

  “It’s a start,” I agree as I park.

  Inside, we’re ushered to Madame Brittanie’s office. She’s an excellent director—good-hearted, cares about the children, and often works miracles with a paltry budget, so I trust that she will be a good steward of these funds.

  “Monsieur Corbin, what a pleasant surprise!” she exclaims, standing to shake my hand.

  “Lovely to see you as well. May I introduce Mademoiselle Autumn Fisher?” Autumn shakes Brittanie’s hand too, and we sit.

  “The fundraising gala was quite the success. I hope you enjoyed it as well?” I ask.

  Brittanie’s eyes widen as she gushes. “It was amazing. I couldn’t stop looking at everything, or eating everything.” She laughs, patting her flat belly.

  “I’m glad. We raised a bit of funds for the orphanage, and as a representative of House Corbin, it’s my honor to deliver this to you.”

  I hand the envelope over, and when Brittanie opens it, the check slips from her fingers, falling to the table as she starts weeping. “Monsieur Corbin . . . I . . . mon Dieu, I . . .”

  “Will take it to the bank today,” I finish for her, taking out a pocket square and handing it to her. “But before that, make me two promises. One, that you’ll renovate the playground for the children, and maybe put in some fitness equipment for the older ones?”