“Morning,” I whispered, stretching my arms above my head. His scent still clung to my skin and I was deliciously sore.
“You’re fucking sexy in the morning,” he growled in a sleep-roughened voice.
I laughed, watching him press soft kisses along the top of my foot, my toes. It was a lovely way to be woken up. I felt worshipped, pretty, and very much wanted.
He kept his gaze on mine, the hungry look in his eyes making my belly flutter. His teeth grazed my instep and the laughter died on my lips, need filling my system almost instantly. Memories of last night danced through my mind, watching Ben’s mouth move over my skin. He kissed a path up my lower leg, hovering briefly at the skin on the back of my knee. His breath tickled and I squirmed in the bed, already anticipating where he was heading.
He gently bit the flesh inside my thigh and my sex clenched. Pushing my T-shirt up, his fingers hooked into my panties and he dragged them down my legs. I pulled the shirt over my head and tossed it beside the bed while Ben shoved off his boxers. I noticed the clock read ten after seven. He had a fitting at eight.
“You have to be at the Versace offices at eight.”
“Yes, but first I need breakfast, and this little pussy has been begging me to taste it.” He resumed nibbling along my inner thigh and my protests died. He pressed a tender kiss on the top of my pubic bone and began kissing his way lower. I had never felt so cherished, so thoroughly worshipped. The feeling was addictive. I could sense his warm breath, his unshaven jaw scratching my inner thighs. Completely unrushed, Ben continued lightly kissing me all over. I squirmed against the mattress, ready to have his mouth cover me. He gripped my hips, holding me in place, and softly chuckled against my skin.
“Lie still, you naughty little thing.”
His tongue made lazy strokes against me, tasting me, torturing me with his unrushed exploration. I whimpered and threaded my fingers in his hair, fighting the urge to pull him closer.
Ben delivered on the promise that he excelled at oral. His warm mouth covered me, sucking lightly, swirling his tongue against my sensitive flesh in a hypnotic pattern. Within minutes, my world exploded in pleasure and I thrashed against him, clutching the sheets in my fists as I came.
He rose on his knees, his lips pink and swollen from his assault on my lady parts. He was fucking sexy. His hand caught his eager erection and he stroked himself slowly, continuing to watch me. My body was still trembling from the intense orgasm when Ben positioned himself against me and pressed forward. I dug my heels into his ass, and arched my back, forcing him deeper. His thick length invaded me, parting me, making me whimper.
A low growl murmured in his throat. “Fuck, your body feels good. I’ll never get tired of this.”
My walls clenched around him and I clung to his shoulders. Ben pounded into me, not holding back as he sent us both closer to release. He captured my wrists and held my hands above my head as our lower bodies joined in a frantic rhythm. He released one hand to grip my bottom, lifting me to meet his thrusts, and drove into me with wild abandon, his eyes slipping closed, and his forehead resting against mine. Our mouths brushed, lips parted with heavy breaths.
For only knowing each other a short time, we were closer than two people had a right to be. But I didn’t care, didn’t want to overanalyze why I’d fallen so deeply. I only knew I had. And that Ben seemed to be falling for me, too.
“Emmy . . .” he groaned, releasing a sigh. “I can’t last, baby.”
“Inside me.” I breathed. “Come inside me . . .”
He clutched my ass, capturing my mouth with his, and kissed me deeply as he exploded inside me.
“Shit. You’re too much, beautiful girl.” Ben kissed my forehead then moved to lay beside me.
My galloping heart soared at his words. I constantly wondered what he thought of me, of my looks, always nervous that I didn’t measure up, but his little declaration did a lot to ease my worries. It was a small thing, but hearing him call me beautiful made everything okay. His hand rested against my hip, and as much as I wanted to turn and snuggle into his warm, broad body, I knew we were running late and didn’t have the luxury of cuddle time. I sat up and tugged the sheet to cover my breasts. I wasn’t completely comfortable with Ben seeing my body, especially in the stark morning light.
He watched me, his eyes sweeping over the bare skin of my shoulder, with a dark, hungry look that my body already seemed to know. My stomach chose that exact moment to rumble loudly, interrupting the silence.
Ben smiled lightly. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to take you out for a proper breakfast.”
I smirked. “Your idea of breakfast or mine? I’m craving my momma’s cooking. Biscuits and gravy, eggs, and homemade pecan pancakes.”
He laughed. “Hmm. I’ll have to see where you come from sometime. I can’t say I’ve ever had a true southern breakfast.”
I liked the idea of taking Ben to Tennessee. “Yes, well, vitamins and a green smoothie hardly count as a proper breakfast where I come from.”
Ben chuckled. “Fiona means well, Emmy. She really does.”
My quirked-up eyebrow told him I disagreed.
“I’ve been with her a long time. I want to make sure you guys get along.”
“I’m pretty sure she hates me,” I mumbled.
“Hmm.” He thought it over, not disagreeing. “She’s just protective of me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And things certainly won’t get easier once she knows I’m seeing you.”
Oh, I was
seeing
Ben Shaw now. Whatever happened to going on actual dates, knowing where you stood, who you were dating—if you were exclusive? Ellie and I complained about that often. Nowadays, you had guys you were
talking to, seeing,
or
hanging out with casually
, or in the case of Ben and I,
having mind-blowing sex with
. But I didn’t dare inquire about what this was between us. Because let’s be serious, if this was all he had to offer, I would take it. No questions asked. Already, I was in too deep. I couldn’t hold back.
Men like Ben didn’t do traditional relationships. For all my Googling, I’d never once turned up a past girlfriend. Maybe he kept his private life private; but still, jetting around the globe was hardly conducive for maintaining a healthy relationship. Not to mention he had girls throwing themselves at his feet on a daily basis. Why would he need to bother dating? He could get regular sex whenever he wanted it, without any strings, any hassles. Getting the milk for free, my momma would say.
I wasn’t like him. I knew I’d want more. I wanted it all—a committed boyfriend, monogamy, eventual marriage, two kids, and a house in Tennessee, hopefully near my parents. But I could enjoy this with Ben and worry about my future later. I was choosing to live in the here and now. And I had a very tempting half-naked man in front of me. It was no question. All doubts and insecurities fled my brain.
“Ben, we should just keep this between us. Fiona doesn’t need to know.”
He watched me thoughtfully, stroking my thigh with his fingertips.
I could only imagine how she’d treat me if she found out about me and Ben.
He ran a hand through his wildly misbehaving hair, cursing softly. “You might be right.” At least he wasn’t so fooled by Fiona that he couldn’t see that. “But I don’t want to have to sneak around. I’ll find a way to talk to her.”
I wanted to tell him not to bother, but I liked that he’d be willing to tell her about us—this, whatever this was. But maybe I was reading too much into it. It wasn’t some chivalrous act, some romantic gesture. He just didn’t want to have to sneak around for the next three months.
Ben pushed the loose strands of hair back from my face. “And about what you asked me last night . . . we’ll talk about that tonight, okay?” Ben’s big, warm palm cupped my cheek. “I didn’t forget.”
Our whispered conversation in the darkness last night came rushing back: his raw emotional state, the bathroom cabinet full of prescription bottles, Gunnar’s warning, Fiona’s possessiveness. All of it hit me like a wave. I was headed for an early nervous breakdown at this rate. But I was powerless to stop the crazy train carrying me straight for destruction. In fact, I wanted an express ticket. I nodded, pulling my shirt over my head and letting the sheet drop away once I was covered.
I knew he’d be busy all day with fittings and meetings. “Go,” I shooed him from the bed, knowing he was already late. “I’ll let myself out.”
He dropped a light kiss to my lips then rose from the bed. I stepped into my panties and jeans while Ben headed into the shower. Back to reality.
12
Emmy
After a hot shower back in my room and my usual coffee and croissant, I logged into email. The benefit of Fiona having a separate room meant her usual mode of communication—Post-it notes—was reduced to email. There was just one message, sent at one in the morning.
Crap
.
I sipped my coffee and stared at the offending message without opening it. I wondered if she’d commented on last night. It’d been a bold move even showing up at Ben’s birthday dinner, and then stealing the guest of honor right from under her nose. What had I been thinking? Fiona was my boss. She could fire me and send me packing at her discretion. And then what would I tell my mom? I’d gotten fired for sleeping with one of the models. God, could you imagine? I shuddered.
Opening Fiona’s email, I breathed a sigh of relief. Her note instructed me to meet her at 11 a.m. at the Yves Saint Laurent offices in the 8th arrondissement near the Champs-Élysées.
I knew Paris Fashion Week was just a few weeks away, which meant our schedule was about to get crazy.
When I arrived at the limestone building, a beautiful young receptionist sat at the sleek, marble-topped desk. Her lips were painted YSL red, her dark hair tucked into a sleek chignon.
“Bonjour,”
she greeted me in a perfectly pretty and feminine accent. Great. Even the receptionist had me feeling insecure.
“Bonjour,”
I returned, stopping in front of her desk. “Um, I’m with Status Model Management. I’m supposed to meet Fiona Stone,” I muttered, hoping to God she spoke English.
“Yes, this way.” She rose on precariously high black patent leather pumps—how very chic—and showed me down the hall.
The hallway was lined with guys looking to be cast in the show. Some sat on the floor, others stood, many played with their phones, while others talked quietly to the guys near them.
I pushed open the heavy door as the receptionist retreated back to the lobby. Aside from the row of chairs facing the front of the stark white room, it was empty. I spotted Fiona right away, seated with a small cluster of stylists. I approached them carefully, cursing myself for not dressing better. I was in simple khakis, sensible flats, and a white button-down shirt paired with a navy cardigan. Basically, Fiona was going to have a stroke when she saw me. But I didn’t care. I had a job to do, and I was comfortable.
I inched my way toward my boss. A male model came out from behind the curtain slung across the front of the room and began walking for the stylists. With his classic death stare in place, he strutted forward. His walk was perfect—cold and calculating, without blinking. He paused then turned and headed back behind the curtain. Today was casting for our guys, as well as fittings for the ones who had already been chosen for the show. I slid down into the chair behind Fiona. She instantly turned and looked me over with a critical sigh, shaking her head and frowning.
Off to a great start, Emmy
.
We watched several more guys come out and walk for the group of Yves Saint Laurent executives. I did my best to quickly pass Fiona the comp cards as each guy was announced. I’d printed off the portfolios that morning and arranged them in a binder, choosing our younger guys with dark features and intense looks, a favorite of YSL. As much as I complained about Fiona, I enjoyed my job and took pride in what I did.
John Paul from our agency, just nineteen years old and starting this career in this crazy business, came out next, dressed to kill in a beautifully tailored pin-striped suit that appeared made just for him.
“Street walk, darling,” Fiona drawled, correcting him.
His walk had been too exaggerated, too much swish in his hips. I’d come to learn street walk meant walk as naturally as you would down the street, no posing, no hands on hips. Each designer preferred a different walk. Versace was known for wanting lots of swagger and attitude, but apparently the classy folks at YSL were looking for the understated. John Paul straightened his shoulders and walked naturally down the center of the room before turning on his heel and heading back behind the curtain.
The stylist seated next to Fiona jotted notes into her iPad. I wondered if he’d made the show or not. Little things like the way your hips moved when you walked mattered so greatly in this field. It was a cutthroat business. While the models’ walks set the mood for the show, it was all about the clothes. Then fashion editors would write about the next big trends, orders would be placed, and the next year we’d all be wearing remnants inspired by these shows. It was fascinating, really.
I wasn’t expecting Ben to be here, but the production assistant announced “Ben Shaw” in the most adorable French accent. My eyes snapped up to the front.
Ben walked out from behind the curtain like he owned the room and strutted down the walkway. He looked straight ahead and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. A smile tugged at my lips. He was devastatingly handsome, outfitted from head to toe in the designer clothing. A cropped gray wool coat for fall, paired with fitted black trousers. Oh wow. He was sex on a stick. I couldn’t believe this was the same man I’d just shared a bed with. The same man who’d sleepily offered to take me to breakfast. He was absolute perfection. Ben was a professional, his walk sure and strong, his gaze cast forward, undistracted and certain. Unlike the guys who were nervous or scatted, their gazes darting to check for reactions as they walked, Ben was utter confidence, staring straight ahead and letting nothing stand in his way. Commanding. And sexy as hell.