Fierce (23 page)

“Now, see,” she said, “if I were a different kind of person, not the butterfly type, I’d tell you that you might not want to be quite so suspicious and dictatorial and make me mad so much, and then you wouldn’t have to say it at all. But of course, being a butterfly and all, I can’t. And did anyone ever tell you that you have trust issues? Remember my swan story? You’d have totally let me burn. I’m just saying.”

“Anyone ever tell
you
that you’re bloody saucy?” I tried a glare, but I wasn’t sure I was too effective. “Saucy girls can get themselves in trouble. As I may have mentioned last night. And I’d like the butterfly back, please.”

She was laughing now, not deterred a bit. “You only get the butterfly on special occasions. And you know, you might be a little scarier if you weren’t naked.”

“And here I thought that was my best look. Wait, though. Are we bantering?” 

“You know what?” She smiled. “I think we are.”

“Huh. I don’t banter.” 

“First time for everything, some people say,” she said, peeping at me from under her lashes. “For relationships, for sex, and even for banter. At least that’s what I hear.”

Later on, of course, I realized that Hemi never
had
apologized. But he’d dropped it, and that had been something, hadn’t it? 

Well, no. The whole thing should have been a red flag, but what can I say? Hemi was distracting. Besides, he’d been so sweet after that, hadn’t balked a bit at my needing time to finish my assignment for Martine after he’d called down for our room service breakfast of coffee and croissants. 

So, no, I couldn’t stay annoyed with him. Instead, I transferred my annoyance to Martine, because I was having to take time away from our stolen weekend to work. But then, she would have been expecting me to work on the plane, too, and I hadn’t
been
on the plane. 

I couldn’t complain too much about anything, though, when I was embarking with Hemi on another walking tour of Paris. Well, what was supposed to be a walking tour, except that we passed the shop windows of Chantal Thomass before we’d even made it five blocks. I couldn’t resist a peek, and Hemi saw me do it.

He stopped. “Pretty, eh.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is.” 

I wasn’t even talking about the window displays. I was just looking at the building.  Three sets of curving windows rose in perfect harmony against a pale gray background, were edged by extravagantly thick curlicues of white plaster trim as elaborate as the frosting on a wedding cake. In Paris, it seemed, even the buildings looked good enough to eat. 

Hemi, though, had already moved past that. He had hold of my hand and was tugging me inside. “Perfect.”

“We’re supposed to be looking at art,” I protested, attempting to shore up my rapidly weakening resolve. “And churches.”

“I
will
be looking at art. At beautiful things, anyway. And you could call it research.”

“You going into the ladies’ lingerie business?” I was still giving it my best effort. “Girls’ stuff is pretty different from boys’.”

“It is, eh. Good to know.” He was already prowling the rooms of the chocolate-box shop with its tall, ornate pier-glass mirrors set against pink walls, the inevitable pink armchairs and crystal chandeliers, pulling items off shelves and racks as a frighteningly chic brunette saleswoman glided forward to meet us. 

“The lady requires a fitting room, please,” Hemi said, handing her an armful of garments.

She took one look at the cut of his suit and his hair and was already moving to comply. “Certainly, monsieur. If madame would come this way?” 

 When Hemi followed me through the door, though, and shut the pink velvet curtain behind him, I balked. 

“No,”
I hissed. “What’s she going to
think?”

“That I want to help you choose?” He sat down on a pale-pink bench, looking much too big, too dark, and too fierce to be anything but incongruous against the quilted pink walls, with an expression on his face that I was sure was supposed to be innocent and didn’t fool me one bit. “What? Would you rather I sit in the middle of the shop and have you model for me out there? I’d love seeing you walk out to me in your undies, having you turn for me so I can see the back, but you may get a bit embarrassed, I’m thinking. I’ve noticed you do tend to get embarrassed over certain…acts, so I’m just guessing. But I’m thinking I’m right.”

I had my hands on my hips now. “You are so…And anyway, if you’re in here, she’s going to think…”

“Yeh?” he asked softly. “What’s she going to think?”

“That I’m giving you a—” I stopped, because he had that smile starting around his eyes. He didn’t tease, and he didn’t banter? I had news for him. He did both.

“Yeh,” he said. “She may. What d’you reckon? If I spend enough…”

I went for sass. Whatever he said, I could tell he liked it. But I kept my voice down. “No. Absolutely not. Anyway, unfortunately for you, I don’t even know how. I’ve seen videos, of course, but I’m thinking there’s some technique involved, and alas…” I raised my shoulders in an extravagant shrug. “I’ve never had a teacher, have I? And we have all this art to look at and everything, so oh, well.” I sighed. “Maybe I can find somebody else to show me sometime.” And all right, I threw that one in there just to see what he would do. I could tease, too.

What it did, in fact, was make him lose the casual expression. “No, you won’t. You’re not finding anybody else to show you. That’s going to be me.”

I had to smile a little inside. He was so easy. “Is it? I’ll see if I can remember that. Well, if you want to watch…” I shrugged, pulled my sweater, another waist-length one, plain black this time, over my head with a little extra wriggle that wasn’t strictly necessary, then hung it on a hook before turning my back to Hemi and unzipping my short red plaid skirt and letting it drop to the floor. And then I bent over, took off my boots, and shimmied my black tights down my legs. 

Yes, I was stripping for Hemi, and I was enjoying it, too. There was apparently a
lot
of bad girl hiding inside me, and it had only taken one incredible night to bring it out. Who knew?

I tossed the tights onto the chair with the skirt, then peeped over my shoulder at him. “Sure I need to do this? I have underwear already. And it’s nice, don’t you think?” 

He shifted on his bench, not looking quite as comfortable as he had been. “Bloody hell.” 

“Mm. You like them?” Hot pink, cut high on the cheeks in a style that I privately thought was even sexier than a thong. “See? I’m all good. Don’t need a sugar daddy to buy me sexy French lingerie or anything.”

“Except that I can tell it came from Target. You forget—I’m a professional.” He’d recovered, was holding up a padded hanger with a bra clipped to it that my hands longed to touch, all lace and trimming and gorgeousness. He waggled it at me much too temptingly. “No? Not interested?” 

“Well, maybe just to please you.” I turned to face him, unfastened the back clasp of my bra, then dropped it down my arms and handed it to him, so I was standing in just my underwear. “Do you want to be in charge of this?”

I could see him swallow, and the power surged through me just a little bit more. “Yeh,” he said. “I do.”

He sat on his bench for more than half an hour and watched me try on bras, made me walk around the little room with them on “so I can see the line,” and answered the look I shot him with a blandness that didn’t fool me one bit. And, in the end, we chose two. The one I found most irresistible, a pale blue delicately trimmed with lace, intricately embroidered with flowers in the same color. And his favorite, a pink balconette style with an overlay of black floral lace in a bandeau across the front, which I had to admit was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. And, he informed me, we’d be buying six matching thongs, three for each bra. 

“Six?”
I hadn’t been able to resist looking at the discreet tag safety-pinned to the waist strip, and had gasped. “Forty euros
apiece?
And no, I can’t try it on. If you try it on, you have to buy it.”

“Perfect,” he said, “as I mean to buy it. It’s your size. Put it on.”

I pulled off the pretty blue bra and, at the waggle of his forefinger dangling the thong, sighed with mock reluctance and slid my own underwear down my hips, trying to ignore the fact that I was, yes, naked. I pulled on the black lace thong with its edging of pink, settled it into place, and looked in the mirror, twisting and turning to get a view.

“All right,” I admitted. “Pretty. Thank you, since you just bought this. But still not worth forty euros. And I still don’t need three of them.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he leaned forward, looped a finger over the tiny side band of the thong, and pulled me toward him with it, the first time he’d touched me in here, then made a lazy circular gesture with his other hand. “Around.” 

“I mean it,” I warned. “No.”

“Ah,” he said. “But you seem to forget. You’re not in charge.” 

My heart began to pound. So far, this had only been a sexy game, one that had pushed me to the limit of my comfort zone all the same. It wasn’t public, but it was totally public. There was classical music playing from speakers overhead, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough even for us to be saying…what we were saying. The snatches of French conversation were clearly audible, the rasp of a fitting-room curtain sliding along its bar down the row. We weren’t even behind a
door.

“Around,” Hemi said again. “I want to check the fit.”

I turned so I was facing away from him, looked into the mirror, and he got that hand under the band again and pulled me back. 

“Mm,” he said judiciously. Before I knew what he was doing, he’d shifted so one hand was on my hip, holding me for him, and the fingers of the other were under that other band, the one that ran down between my legs. And after that, he was “checking” it all the way down, his feather-light touch stoking the flames that had been burning since he’d come in here with me, and I was watching in the mirror while he did it.  

“Hemi,” I whispered. “No.” 

He sighed. “You’re right. Take them off.” 

I saw my eyes widen in the glass. “What?”

“Take them off,” he said. “So we can buy them.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. I did it, then put out my hand for my underwear. But he just smiled.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m
not
going to have sex with you in here,” I hissed. “You said I could say no, and I’m saying it. I mean, if you want to buy me underwear, all right. I’ll be…I’ll be gracious. Thank you. But that doesn’t mean you’re buying
me,
and
no.”

“Didn’t think I asked you to have sex.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. I just said that you’re not putting your undies back on. And you say
I’m
suspicious.” He picked up my purse from the floor and held it out to me. “Put them in there. The tights as well.”

I was naked in a fitting room with an assistant walking by four feet away. I couldn’t have this conversation here. Surely that was why I did it. I sighed, did my best to look martyred, and put both items into my bag.

He handed me my bra and, when I started to put it on, shook his head. “Oh, no. It goes in the bag, too.”

I looked at him in shock. “I can’t wear that little sweater with no bra. It’s…
thin.
And my skirt is…” I swallowed. “Short.”

“And quite nice, too. Put the bra away. You’ve got such pretty little breasts, and I want to see them.”

I looked at him, at the mouth that wasn’t smiling a bit now, and slowly complied. “But if I do this…” I started to say.

“Yeh?” he prompted when I didn’t go on. “What?”

“I’m…” I looked around, and whispered it. “Wet. I’ll…”

It was the real reason I hadn’t wanted to put the black thong on. The throb had started as soon as he’d sat down on that stool, had only increased since. I’d seen my face in the mirror as we’d gone on. I knew my cheeks had grown increasingly flushed, my eyes ever brighter, and I was pretty sure he’d noticed, too.

“Yeh?” he asked. “You’ll what?” He reached out a hand and was tracing down again, all the way to where I was swollen and aching for him. He rubbed a few times, and I squirmed and tried so hard not to moan. 

“Hm,” he said. “You just may. And I want to watch that, too.” And then he took his hand away. “When it happens.”

“Hemi. I
can’t.”
I could barely get the words out, because I was having all I could do not to pant.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re not thinking positively enough. There’s no such word as
can’t.”

He handed me my skirt, and I pulled it up helplessly and fastened the zipper as he watched. He was still watching while I pulled the sweater over my head and looked in the mirror at my nipples pebbling under the thin fabric. 

“Cold outside,” he said. “You’ll be wearing a jacket. I know your legs will be a bit chilly, but we’ll walk fast, eh. We’re not going far.”

“Oh.” I felt foolish again. Nobody was going to see. He was trying to make me feel sexy, that was all. And it was working. “Right.”