“Well, work and fashion brought you to Paris. What brought you to fashion?” It’s a calculated move. The topic is professional, but for designers like Autumn, also extremely personal.

  “That’s easy. And not so much of a what, but a who. My grandmother Daisy was the sharpest dressed woman in town.” She smiles, seemingly lost to her memories. “Everywhere she went, she went prepped. And seeing her dress up all the time, seeing the way everyone reacted to that, it was just natural to love fashion.”

  “I see. And what town was this?”

  Autumn waves it off. “A smallish town in Massachusetts called Newton, like the scientist. But Newton’s claim to fame is that the Fig Newton cookie is named after the city.”

  “Then hopefully, you’ll become the most famous person from Newton someday and you’ll be their claim to fame.”

  Autumn laughs. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe my mom would support me then.”

  “Your own mother doesn’t support you?” I ask.

  Autumn closes her mouth abruptly, seeming to realize how much she’s accidentally revealed. Slowly, she confesses, “Mom wants me to marry a townie, live nearby, and give her grandbabies. If I need to do something, I could be a seamstress or something. But I want more . . . like this competition. I want to see the world, experience people and cultures, and maybe make it all a bit more special with my designs. Does that sound vain or stupid?”

  “To me? No, of course not,” I tell her. “I appreciate that you have broader horizons. If I may say so, the Americans I’ve met are not always known for their desire to learn about other cultures. And fashion is my life as well, so I understand that.”

  She takes the assessment well, thankfully, not offended at my mentioning of the stereotype of Americans. A connection weaves between us that wasn’t there when she first sat down, a relaxation of Autumn’s defenses, but also a tension pulling us closer.

  “What about you?” she asks. “Other than what I read online about you, tell me about yourself.” She smiles, pleased with herself at turning my words back on me.

  I scoot closer, dipping in to whisper, “I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. You must only ask.”

  Her breath catches in her throat, and she looks at me sharply. “Simon.”

  My name on her lips in that breathy tone does something to me I’ve never experienced. Instantly, I want to pull her into my lap, fill her, and please her until she forgets every other name she’s ever muttered in pleasure. Until it’s only my name she knows.

  I add a scant few centimeters between us, enjoying the cat and mouse game. “I grew up with fashion, with my aunt. Other children learned about sports and video games. I could tell you the percentage of silk in a fabric before I began primary school.” I laugh at a memory and then decide to share it. “I had this coat, navy with white piping. It was a child-size version of a piece from Jacqueline’s collection that year. The other boys were playing outside, digging in the dirt, playing ball and tag, but not me.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Sitting on the steps, watching and wishing I could play. It was the first time I realized that fashion has limits, although I didn’t have the words for it then, of course. I loved that coat so much, but I also wanted to be a child. I know it’s a bit like complaining about being privileged, but I’m not. I know how fortunate I was . . . how lucky I am to live my life.” I truly mean it, not that most people would believe me. They see a pretty face and don’t give me much more thought or credit beyond that.

  “I bet your life is amazing. Fashion, VIP rooms, and I hear you have rabid fans who’ll do anything for you, Mr. Corbin.”

  I can hear the information that Beatrice planted in Autumn’s mind coloring her words, and it makes me angry. Typically, when people write me off as nothing more than my last name, I don’t give a shit. It speaks more to their lack of vision than anything. But this time, I want to be seen by Autumn. And she’s using my name against me to create a wedge between us when things were going well.

  I lean in close, growling, “I said to call me Simon. And is that jealousy I hear?”

  Slowly, she turns her head, her lips a mere breath from mine. Her voice is sultry and hot as she whispers, “Nothing to be jealous of. You can give wet, sloppy French kisses to a different woman each night if you’d like. It’s no business of mine, Simon.”

  She sounds as though she’d like to believe that and is doing her damnedest to convince herself. But she’s jealous, all right. And she called me by my name again as I instructed her to. She’s a beguiling mix of submissive and strong, calling me out in one moment and giving in to me the next.

  And opening doors I’m excited about.

  “Wet, sloppy French kisses? Mon Dieu, have you never been properly kissed?”

  She bristles tellingly. “Of course I have.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it. A proper kiss is not wet and sloppy. It’s warm and soft, tasting and exploring one another as it becomes passionate. Fire erupts as breaths become one, the hunger building between souls who desire connection. It’s a beautiful experience like no other.”

  With each word, we’ve moved closer and closer. Our breaths mingle despite our lips not touching yet because her mouth has dropped open into a tiny O of desire.

  I’m about to kiss her when we’re interrupted by a group of young women breaking into the VIP section and running toward me. There’s a flurry of French squeals, cellphone flashes, and napkins thrust my way. In the melee, Autumn pulls back from me and a woman sits down in the tiny space between us, wiggling in an attempt to push Autumn further away.

  “Simon, Simon . . . can you sign this, please?”

  “Will you take our picture?”

  “J’adore vous.”

  The mob of women seems to be some sort of girls’ night out affair because they have matching dresses on. I would love to tell them off for their rudeness, but even now, I’m keenly aware that I am a representative of House Corbin, as well as a product in and of myself. Rudeness is not marketable.

  Still, Autumn is watching the whole scene unfold like her words conjured the very thing she mentioned—fans who want nothing more than a kiss or a fuck from me as a story to brag about.

  “One minute, please,” I tell the women. “Autumn,” I say, sensing her urge to run, which is the last thing I want.

  She looks into my eyes, and I can see her fire building. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes alight, and her lips are pressed into a straight line. “It’s fine, Mr. Corbin. You’re a popular man.”

  At that moment, another woman rushes up to the loveseat from behind us, bumping Autumn in the head with her purse. “Oof,” Autumn grunts, looking up to glare at the newcomer, who doesn’t apologize or even seem to have noticed what she’s done.

  “Mon Dieu, Simon! Have my babies!” she drunkenly yells into my ear.

  Autumn doesn’t speak French, but she apparently knows enough to understand the woman said something about babies. She gets up, politely saying pardon even though these women have been anything but polite.

  “Autumn, wait. She wants to have my babies. We don’t have babies together. I’ve never seen her before.” I’m trying to explain as if that would be enough to make her sit back down, but she’s running for the velvet rope that marks the VIP area.

  “Pardon. I need to go,” I tell the fawning women, who haven’t noticed or cared that they’ve pushed out my guest. All they want is a piece of me. None of them move. If anything, they scoot closer, attempting to keep me there. “Get off,” I snarl, and they jump in shock.

  That may have been a mistake, but right now, all I care about is apologizing to Autumn for our moment being interrupted.

  I follow her footsteps out the roped area and look across the dance floor, assuming she will have returned to the other contestants. But I see them on the dance floor having a great time, and Autumn isn’t with them.

  “Monsieur Corbin,” the waitress calls, and when I look her way, she points toward the back hall.

  “Merci.”

  I track her down to the women’s restroom. Taking a small delight in returning her earlier favor, I burst through the door.

  Autumn is standing at the sink, staring at herself in the mirror, but when I enter, she jerks and looks my way. “This is the ladies’ room,” she snaps.

  “Found you,” I reply, ignoring her argument about a sign on the door. Something so trivial doesn’t matter. What does matter? “We were in the middle of something.”

  She snorts out a sad laugh. “You were in the middle of it, that’s for sure.” She makes a move to step around me and I block her way.

  “Non.”

  “I’ve had enough for one day. I need to get back to the others and get to bed so I’m ready for tomorrow,” she begs. But there’s a thread of something in her tone. She thinks those women are what I’m looking for.

  She couldn’t be more wrong.

  I step into her, saying her name firmly. She lifts her eyes to mine, and the fire burning in their depths could singe the world to ashes. Jealousy, anger, lust, and self-confidence swirl into the dark centers, telling me what I need to know.

  She is attracted to me. Not nearly as much as I am to her, but I’m not sure that’s possible given the hunger I feel. I cup her jaw with both hands, and she whispers something that sounds like, “So tall.”

  I bend down to reach her, lowering my head and kissing her. As promised, I start gently and slowly, sipping at her. She tastes sweet, like the champagne she barely drank. But it’s like giving a thirsty man a single drop of water. One sampling of her and I desperately need more, craving to know her fully. I tease at the seam of her lips, demanding entry, and when she surrenders and opens for me, I want to roar with pride. Of all the goals I’ve attained in my life, Autumn’s welcoming of me into her beautiful mouth amidst the gaudiness of a nightclub ladies' room, somehow feels like the most important.

  I steal her breath, and she presses into me. Or maybe she’s stolen mine? She’s certainly claimed all my attention and focus with ease. Our tongues meet, passion igniting into an inferno, and she moans. I feel the vibration of it against my fingers, which glance over her neck as I still hold her jaw, and lightning shoots through me, going straight to my cock.

  I dance her backward, toward the tile wall, wanting to pin her so she can’t get away again because I want this kiss to go on forever. Or whatever is longer than that. Infinity? Yes, I could kiss Autumn infinitely. But when we tumble into the wall, the cold tile must be shocking because it takes her out of the moment.

  Her hand pushes on my chest. “Wait.”

  Instantly, I wrestle back control of myself, though I’m panting from the exertion of holding myself apart from her. And then her denial clears the fog in my mind . “What?”

  “I can’t. I’m here to work, the professional opportunity. I’m sorry.”

  She dodges around me, leaving me alone and wondering what just happened. A stall door opens and an older woman steps out, gives me a quick up and down, and then offers, “I’ll do you if you want.”

  Without Autumn’s fire, this restroom seems seedy and dirty now. Or perhaps it’s not the place, but simply the lack of the woman I desire. I want to be back with Autumn, her mouth giving as well as taking, her body writhing for closeness to mine as she makes that melodious moaning sound again.

  Startled, I blink, spin on my heel, and stride out of the restroom. I scan the dance floor once more but don’t see either Autumn or the other ladies. Hopefully, they all left together and are back at their apartments getting some rest to prepare for tomorrow like Autumn said.

  I think I’ll do the same.

  CHAPTER 7

  SIMON

  The bathroom is dimly lit, empty, and in the background, the pulsing throb of dance music filters in from the main club. All I can see is Autumn, her body yielding to me as our kiss deepens and my hand cups her ass.

  “Yes,” she moans into my mouth. I knead her flesh, my dick hard as a rock in my pants as I explore a body, and a woman, unlike any I’ve ever felt before.

  With a quick movement, I spin her, pushing her against the wall and pinning her against the tile. Autumn plants her hands, her hair flying as she looks over her shoulder at me, arching her back.

  I lift the skirt of her dress with greedy, hungry hands, exposing the soft peach of her ass. It’s thick, ripe, and alluring, and made more so by being split by a black thong. My good girl has a naughty streak, one I want to cherish and cultivate until it blooms for me alone.

  My hands fumble as I pull my suit jacket off and undo my trousers, letting them drop to the floor. My cock springs free, and Autumn pushes back against me, moaning when she feels me press against her lower back.

  “Mmm, so big,” she says. “Will you fit in me?”

  I growl in response, bending my knees as I tug her soaked thong to the side. In one swift thrust, I’m balls deep in her. Autumn cries out in pleasure as I fill her.

  Her pussy is . . . amazing. Tight and silky, it envelops me like a succubus’s caress even as her angelic face brightens joyfully. Grabbing a fistful of her hair to keep her in place, I pull back, leaving only my tip inside before slamming into her hard and deep.

  “You’re what I’ve always wanted,” I rasp in her ear as my hips smack against her ass, the flesh shaking and quivering sexily with each thrust. “You’re real, aren’t you? Not a figment of my imagination?”

  “Ugh! Yes!” Autumn grunts, her hips rolling to meet me. “All real.”

  “Show me,” I growl, driving harder. Autumn meets me stroke for stroke, turning her head more so that our lips touch, my hands reaching around to cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her silk camisole. I can feel her inner muscles tighten, and a wave of pride rushes through me.

  I’m giving her what she wants. It adds to my desire, and my hips fly, slapping and pounding hard until I feel my balls churn, my orgasm just a second away.

  “Simon!”

  I sit up in bed, sweat rolling down my chest in rivulets . . . and I’m on the verge of coming. I’m still fighting off the depths of my dream, wishing I could get back to that place for a moment. My cock is rock hard, precum dripping from the tip and demanding release. I consider jerking off, but I want Autumn, not a memory or thought of her. Even in my dream, I noted her ‘realness’.

  That’s what draws me to her. I won’t ruin that with a fantasy.

  “You,” I said, looking down at my cock, “are going to have to make do with discipline and a cold shower.”

  I stretch my arms overhead, but before I can relax, a bark rips through my bedroom, demanding my attention. I barely have time to cover my sensitive groin before a fuzzy, furry missile streaks through the door and leaps onto the bed, landing with a floomp. Another few centimeters to the left and I’d be a eunuch. Thankfully, the dog bomb missed.

  “Xerxes!” I grumble to my Yorkie. His full name is Xerxes the Great, and his behavior warrants use of his full government name, but I’m too asleep to scold him fully and properly.

  The fact that I, a Frenchman, own a dog that was originally a British breed, and named him after an ancient Persian emperor, is a source of endless confusion to those who know me. But after seeing him, it makes sense. He’s irritable, he’s demanding, he’s got a big mouth, and an even bigger personality. Why not name him after an emperor?

  The next question people have is why I have a dog small enough to fit in an evening clutch. Admittedly, Xerxes isn’t exactly a ‘manly’ looking dog. But that’s easily explained too.

  Unusual for a dog like him, I found him on the street as a puppy, wet and shivering, miserable after a rainstorm. He was so small, I’d thought he was a particularly big rat at first. Paris has its fair share of them. Still, even as I approached the little creature, he yapped at me, defiant until I reached into my grocery bag and offered him a scrap of cheese.

  Since then, he’s been my dog. Or it might be more accurate to say I’m his human. I’m sure if dog thoughts could be translated into human languages, he would most certainly say that he’s the owner and I’m merely his servant whom he adopted one day. He definitely likes to push me around, and the sound of my alarm clock means one thing . . . time for his human to feed him.

  “Not now Xerx, you’ll get your food soon. But you won’t get as much if you don’t stop barking,” I tell him. Xerxes yaps one more time then goes quiet, rolling onto his back and offering his belly for a rub.

  He’s a regular belly rub slut.

  I shake my head at his antics, rubbing gently and cooing a kind ‘good morning’. Once he’s calmed down, I lie back in bed with my arm behind my head and think about my dream . . . and last night. Autumn’s lips and tongue, the way she tasted, and her responsiveness are seared into my brain. None of it’s helpful for my hard-on that has returned, pulsing and leaking underneath the sheet.

  Following Autumn to the club and pursuing her was a spontaneous decision, the kiss even more so. Professionally, it probably wasn’t the best move, but personally, I loved every second of it. The way she was prickly, challenging me and combating me, only to yield when our lips touched?

  A man could live a very long, very full life and not have such an experience.

  Xerxes jumps off the bed, and I get up, walking naked through my apartment, my stiff dick leading the way like a spear. It’s one of the prides of my life—my living space, not my dick. Though I’m not ashamed of that body part, either.

  Unlike some of the other fashion moguls I know of, I didn’t purchase one of the newer constructions, trying to be nouveau riche. Those all feel like soulless high-rises that smack of pretension and wealth to me.

  Instead, I renovated an older apartment. It was built in the period between the world wars, and as such, it has a lot of the charming touches that modern apartments lack.

  Yes, there are challenges. Insulation is terrible, and sometimes I feel like I might run out of electrical sockets or overload the building’s wiring. But it’s all worth it for the view from my balcony, nothing famous, but a regular Parisian neighborhood, complete with a small park, is perfect for me.