Bernard stuffs another mushroom into his mouth. He chews it slowly and takes another glug of the alcohol. Then, slams the tumbler on the table.
“Sixty.”
Kendra rolls her eyes. “Come on, Bernard.”
“Seventy-five.”
Kendra: “Bernard, darling, I’m worth more than that. Should we say au revoir?”
Every nerve on edge, I hold my breath. Roman, in contrast, sits back and folds his arms across his chest as if he’s watching a boring tennis match. Another long stretch of silence; tension vibrates in the air. Then finally, his nostrils flaring, Bernard counters.
“One hundred million! That’s eet! My final offer!”
Holy cow! For a second, I think I’m watching my mother’s favorite game show, Deal or No Deal. While Kendra’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, Roman’s face doesn’t move a muscle. Not even the blink of an eye. Silence again. Kendra is practically salivating, already tasting the outrageous sum of money, as Roman contemplates the offer. My heart thuds with anticipation, unable to read his impassive face. The tension in the air is so thick a chainsaw couldn’t cut through it. Finally, Roman’s had enough of it.
“What does the deal include?” He folds his beautiful hands on the table, remaining as cool as a cucumber.
Bernard enumerates a list of perks that include covering all manufacturing costs and full marketing support to make the House of Hurst a global brand. “Additionally, I will get you admitted to the Fédération de la Haute Couture as well as secure an atelier in Paris which will allow you to put on your show in the fashion capital of the world with all the other greats. Chanel . . . Givenchy . . . Dior . . . to name a few.”
Roman seems unimpressed. Poker-faced, he takes another long sip of his Perrier. “What else?”
“I will offer you a base salary of ten million dollars a year and a hefty bonus should sales exceed our expectations.”
Kendra jumps in. “What about my salary?”
“Shut up!” barks Roman before turning to me. “My butterfly, do you have any questions?”
Kendra’s eyes pop. “Are you serious, Roman? She’s barely out of diapers!”
Despite her insult, I’m as shocked as Kendra that he’s asked me to participate in this insane negotiation. She shoots another round of eye daggers my way as I anxiously fiddle with my butterfly pendant and ponder what to ask. Think, Sofi, think! Only one question comes to mind.
“Mr. Altman—”
“Papillon, please call me Bernard.” Swallowing a breath, I don’t let his salacious tone unnerve me. The words tumble out: “Bernard, will Roman have creative control?”
Bernard’s gaze shifts to Roman. “It’s simple. You can do what you want, but I will have zee final approval over each collection.”
Roman flashes a wry smile. “Thank you very much.”
Bernard’s eyes light up like fireworks. Kendra’s toothy smile is so bright it’s blinding. The French mogul claps his hands together like a gleeful child who’s gotten his way.
“Fantastique! We have a deal!”
Roman depletes his water, then rises from his seat.
“No deal!” He turns to me. “Sofi, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He pulls out my chair as Kendra leaps to her feet. She’s fuming, her face turning beet red with rage.
“Roman, are you out of your fucking mind? You’re going to walk away from a hundred million dollars?”
A smug smile curls on his lush lips. “Yup. Just watch me.”
With that, Roman grabs my hand and leads me out of the room, leaving behind a stunned Kendra and Bernard.
“Roman, get back here!” we hear Kendra screech.
“Je ne comprend pas,” mutters Bernard. “C’est tout à fait fou!”
“Fucking French frog,” Roman mumbles under his breath as we head to the elevator.
“I thought he looked more like Tooter Turtle.”
Wrapping his arm around me, Roman lets out a rumble of laughter that vibrates against me. His laughter is contagious, and as the elevator doors ping open, we’re both laughing so hard it hurts. Tears are rolling down my cheeks.
“Roman, no regrets?” I manage.
“As my mother’s favorite songstress, the late great Edith Piaf once sang, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’” He breaks into the famous song. His perfect-pitch baritone voice bounces off the walls. I laugh harder.
We step into the elevator and, still clutching me, Roman hits the lobby button. The doors close.
“C’mon, Butterfly, let’s get a drink. And celebrate.”
CHAPTER 40
Sofi
Bypassing the elegant and airy Palm Court where I glimpse the famous portrait of Eloise, the snotty little girl never one of my childhood literary heroes, Roman leads me to the legendary Oak Room and Bar. No longer open to the public because of some legal dispute, we luck out. The dark, richly paneled space has been rented out for some big celebratory event. Judging by the geeky way the revelers are dressed, they’re definitely from out of town or work for some tech company. Still roaring with laughter, Roman insists we crash the party. Plus, he’s thrilled we won’t run into any of his high-falutin haute couture clients, who are more likely to be found having high tea in the Palm Court after a day of shopping at Bergdorf’s.
“Let’s sit at the bar,” he insists, ushering me toward it. Always the gentleman, he pulls out one of the green leather barstools for me and then takes the seat next to mine, our thighs touching. He’s so close to me I can feel his heat roll off his physique.
“What do you want to drink?” he asks.
My eyes take in all the glistening, jewel-like bottles stacked behind the bar. “How about something French? We can toast Bernard.”
“Actually, I’m going to toast you, my brilliant butterfly. Your question was perfect. It’s the only one I would have asked.”
I smile humbly, but mentally give myself a high five. “Thanks.”
Despite how busy the bar is, Roman manages to grab the attention of a bartender.
“Two Kir Royales. And make them with Veuve Clicquot, please.”
I have no idea what any of this is, but light up when the bartender returns with two crystal flutes, filled with bubbling pink-tinted champagne. Roman lifts his glass and I follow his lead.
“Fuck the French turtle,” he says. Then he clinks his glass against mine. “To my beautiful, brilliant butterfly. For always inspiring me and making me see the light.”
I feel myself blushing, turning pink as the champagne, and not just from his compliment. The proximity of this breathtaking sex god is making me prickle all over. I definitely need a drink. Maybe two. Eager to take a sip of the bubbly, I hear Roman’s phone ring.
“Shit.” Setting his flute on the counter, he slides out his cell from his back pocket. He glances at the screen and swipes answer.
“Ciao! What’s going on, my friend?” He listens intently to the voice on the other end, battling the roar of the raucous crowd and loud music. His brows furrow, anger creasing his forehead.
“Cazzo!” I think he’s cursing in Italian.
“Hold on a secondo, Bruno.” His good eye meets mine. “Sofi, I’m sorry. I’ve got to take this outside where it’s quiet. It’s my supplier from Italy. There’s a problem with the run of some silk organza I ordered. I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, enjoy your Kir and feel free to order another one.” To my surprise, he smacks a quick kiss on my lips before he dashes out of the noisy bar. I roll my tongue around my lips, tasting the deliciousness of him, the brief touch of his lips on mine whetting my appetite for this gorgeous, complex man. For more. I take a sip of my champagne cocktail, the sweet effervescence only stirring my arousal. What would it be like to be really kissed by him? To have his lips locked on mine. My face in his hands. Our tongues entwined? At this titillating thought, hot tingles shoot from my head to my toes. Sofi, stop or you’ll burst out of your skin!
To divert myself, I swivel around a
nd watch the partygoers. Most of them about my age, they seem to be having a blast. I drain my cocktail and order another from the bartender despite how lightheaded I feel. And sexed. It comes quickly. Facing the bar again, I put the flute to my lips when a warm breath dusts the back of my neck. Goose bumps pop along my arms like bubbles of champagne, tingling their way down my spine to my inner thighs. It must be Roman! His lips touch down on the nape, but they feel wet and slimy. Alien to me. Nothing like the soft, velvety lips that met mine earlier. The goose bumps morph into a chill at the sound of a familiar nasal voice.
“Mon petit papillon, how lovely for you to join my party.”
I flip around. It’s Bernard. With me seated, we’re face-to-face, eye-to-eye. He’s so close I can smell his hot, fetid breath. A repulsive mixture of tobacco and alcohol. A smarmy smile lifts the corners of his lips while his glazed eyes flicker with lust.
He’s drunk.
“I’ve got to go,” I stammer. I try to stand up, but he shoves me down. For his size, he’s much stronger than I expected. He keeps his stubby hands glued on my shoulders.
“Let go of me,” I plead.
His reptilian eyes bore into me. “But, papillon, the party eez just getting started.”
“This is your party?”
“Oui. It’s a bienvenue—a welcome aboard bash for the marketing start-up group I just acquired. They may all look like a bunch of nerds as you Americans say, but trust me, they are geniuses . . . like you.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter, his lustful gaze not straying from me.
“You should be working for me. Not that arrogant asshole.”
“I like my job.” And I’m falling in love with him. That beautiful, mysterious, complicated asshole.
“And I like you.” His eyes zero in on my chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you have zee most beautiful teets in zee world?
Before I can utter a word, he gropes my breasts so hard I yelp. “Stop it!” I cry out. Then, on my next harsh breath, he crushes my lips with his mouth, trying to force his tongue down my throat. I keep my lips pressed tight, thwarting him off. Writhing, I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him. Nausea is rising in my chest like a high-speed elevator. Bile mixes with my champagne. I’m going to vomit!
Then, suddenly, I’m freed.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” It’s the voice of anger I know so well. Roman! My eyes pop open in time to watch my hero wrench Bernard off me and shove him to the floor. The French turtle cowers with fear as Roman looms above him. And snarls like a rabid dog.
“God help you, if you ever come near anything that’s mine again. I’ll be handing you your balls on a silver platter.”
“Don’t hurt me! Je vous en prie!” begs the shaking Frenchman, raising his hands in defense.
“Je vous en prie.” Roman imitates him with the girliest of high-pitched nasal voices. Then, his voice lowers decibels and his demeanor darkens. His face turns a deep shade of scarlet, blazing with fury.
“Get the fuck out of here, you worthless piece of shit before I do hurt you.”
My eyes stay on Bernard as he crawls away on all fours like a lumbering, frightened turtle. As he disappears, Roman’s attention shifts to me.
“My butterfly, are you okay?” His voice is now soft and full of concern. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay.” But despite the quiet nod, I’m trembling and tears are trickling down my cheeks.
“You’re not. You’re shaking. Come here.”
On my next heartbeat, I’m wrapped in his strong arms. The arms that have rescued me over and over, again and again. The arms that feel so good around me. The arms that make me feel so cherished, protected, and secure. So loved.
He tilts my chin up with his thumb, the other hand reaching for a cocktail napkin on the counter. He dabs at my tears and then, with the tear-soaked napkin, he circles my lips as if he’s cleansing them. Ridding me of any residue left behind by that creep. My lips still parted, I watch him dip the tip of the napkin into his untouched Kir and repeat the action. Tossing the napkin onto the counter, he traces my lips with his forefinger. Slowly. Reverently. Lowering his head so close to my face I can feel his warm breath on my cheeks.
“No one can touch these lips. They belong to only one person. Me.”
His forehead touches mine, his lips so close I can taste them.
My mouth is paralyzed. My throat so tight I can’t speak.
Kiss me, Roman. Please kiss me!
My heart is thudding in my chest so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
My lips stay parted; my eyes don’t blink. On my next heated breath, he cradles my face in his hands, and as if they have ears and have heard my silent plea, his beautiful lips touch down on mine and consume them.
Oh my God! Roman Hurst is kissing me. I’ve wanted this for so long. Fantasized and dreamed about it. But not in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine what it would be like in reality. I’ve never been kissed like this by a man. I never knew kisses like this existed. It’s the kiss of all kisses. If there was such a thing as an haute couture kiss, this would be it. So perfectly crafted. So magnificent. A kiss meant for the world to see. Except I’m oblivious to everyone around us. It’s just him and me.
His warm, velvet lips capture mine, gnawing and sucking, then his tongue enters my mouth and I taste his flavor, succumbing to its minty sweet essence. To his skill. I grow slack as he sweeps his tongue from corner to corner, my knees so weak I grip his shoulders for support. My tongue meets his, and in a few thumps of my heart, they’re perfectly in sync, dancing together like they’ve danced this way forever. Swirling and twirling. Twirling and swirling. Little moans clog my throat as he holds me a willing prisoner. I never want him to let me go. I never want this kiss to end. He’s ruined me for all other men. But I don’t want another man. I only want him. We kiss until we’re both panting, chests heaving with need. Liquid heat pools between my thighs. Finally, he pulls away. Both of us breathing hard. Trying to catch our breaths. Bereft, so wet, all I want is more.
“Jesus, Butterfly,” he pants out, his lips lingering so close I can still taste him and feel the warmth of his words. His hands never leave my face, his heated gaze searching mine. As if in the depths of his good eye, he’s looking for an answer to a question: What’s next?
My hands still on his shoulders yet I swoon, there’s only one thing on my mind. Only one thing I want.
“Roman, please make love to me.”’
CHAPTER 41
Roman
Make love to me.
Her voice a whisper, that’s all I need to hear. She wants me; I need her; I want her; she needs me.
Something’s changed inside me. Something’s changed between us.
When I saw that fricking French frog or turtle or whatever the fuck he is plaster his slimy lips on my butterfly’s, a tsunami of emotions crashed through me and almost knocked me off my feet.
Shock.
Hate.
Jealousy.
Rage.
In the end, only rage consumed me, and it took all I had not to break every bone in the bastard’s body, rip out his lecherous eyes, and bash in his nuts. Leave the French turtle a shell of the man he used to be.
Then, as he crawled off, I knew what I had to do. Rid her of any taste of him. Fuck him out of her mouth. Out of her mind. Make her mine completely.
That kiss. My first kiss in a decade. I can’t stop thinking about it as we ride the subway in silence back to my place. Yeah, the subway. When she told me what she wanted, I momentarily thought about getting a hotel room because my cock was about to burst out of my pants. But that’s not what I wanted for her first time. Our first time. Rationality trumped my urge to ravage her. I couldn’t wait to get out of the Plaza. Get far away from that French piece of garbage as fast as possible. So, the subway. The quickest way back downtown. And the safest because if we’d gotten into a cab or an Uber, who knows what I would have done to her in the backsea
t.
The Q train is packed, every seat taken, so we’re forced to stand up, each holding on to a pole, me standing behind her, breathing in the orange blossom scent of her hair, which like ambrosia makes me hard again. At a sudden jerk of the roaring train, we jolt and I draw her in close to me with one arm, my erection pressing against her. She looks over her shoulder at me, her knowing eyes smoldering. I can’t help consuming her lips again, and as I deepen my kiss, Vincent’s words circle my head. She’s strong but fragile. Be gentle with her.
CHAPTER 42
Sofi
“Butterfly, we’re going to take it slow and steady,” Roman whispers against my neck as he peels off my clothing piece by piece. Until I’m standing stark naked before him in his candlelit bedroom.
To be honest, I thought we’d be tearing our clothes off in a frenzy of mad passion and desire, but Roman has choreographed a different scenario. As if he premeditated it. As if we have all the time in the world.
A bone-chilling mixture of excitement and apprehension sweeps through me. Caught in the crossfire of fear and desire, I visibly shake. I’ve never been with a man before, let alone a man like him, so virile and powerful. So commanding and passionate.
One question looms: Should I tell him?
Still fully clothed, he crouches down and studies my body, his good eye smoldering as it travels upward, taking in every square inch of my flesh. He plants a soft kiss on each of my feet, then slowly his large warm hands glide up my legs like I’m made of the world’s finest fabric. Goose bumps explode on my skin at his touch. Still caressing me, he rises until we’re again facing each other, bathed in the candlelight. A dazzling smile, one of awe and lust, lifts his lips.
“So, so beautiful.” He frees my hair so it cascades down my back, and showers my shoulders with a flutter of kisses. “Undress me.”
My fingers, quivering with nerves, burning with urgency, unbuckle his belt as he lifts his cashmere sweater over his head and kicks off his shoes.
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