Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“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.