I return to the bedroom. Kathryn is awake, albeit still lying down. While she’s turned away from me, I gaze upon her, in awe that this gorgeous woman is my girlfriend. I’m also in awe that this was the woman in that video. She looks so docile now.
The bed sinks beneath my weight. I move up next to her, blowing hot air against her skin and nipping her ear. She shudders.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “Shall we go out and enjoy the city?”
Kathryn rolls over, one hand touching my chest. When she kisses me, I know we’re not going out anytime soon.
We make love with no expectations between us. None outside of love and tenderness, anyway.
Chapter 11
IAN
By early evening we’ve seen most of the Louvre. Screw our plans for tomorrow. We moved them up to this afternoon.
We leave before closing, talking about the works we saw while walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. We’re slow. There’s no hurry to get to dinner or back to the hotel room. We took care of any sexual urgency we felt hours ago.
There is no talk about the paps or what our families are saying back home. I trust that this will blow over by the time we go back to America. My publicist called me an hour ago to say he’s submitted my response and that it should be posted on The Daily Social tonight when they update their blog.
That doesn’t mean the tension still doesn’t exist between us. Maybe Kathryn doesn’t realize she’s broadcasting such tension, but I can feel it. Because I’m more in tune with what’s going on with her? Maybe.
Since seeing that video, I’ve been paying more attention to Kathryn’s body language. It started in the Louvre, while staring at the Mona Lisa. Kathryn slipped her arm around mine, but did not lean her head in. She tugged at me, insistent, wanting to move on before a crowd of tourists behind us could explode in anticipation. We had both seen the Mona Lisa plenty of times.
Tug. Pull. Guide. Lead. I’m not talking about kinky sex here. I’m talking about Kathryn naturally taking the lead when I’m not making any effort to do so.
Most men probably wouldn’t think anything of it. Sometimes women are in a hurry to get somewhere. Sometimes they want to throw their weight around like they do. This especially happens when you’re in a comfortable relationship like we are. How many times has this happened and I never noticed? Is it natural for her? Is she just being a person? Or is this something she’s not even aware of?
I check my phone for messages while we’re waiting at a long light. Kathryn holds up my hand and kisses it, her eyes batting flirtatiously at me.
I smile, but don’t say anything. I want to see what she does.
“How about we go to Soleil for dinner?” She tucks my growing hair behind my ear. Her touch is light and firm at the same time. Confidence. She’s dripping in it right now. “I haven’t been there in a long time. Bet it’s as good as ever, though.”
“Sure.” I put my phone away. “Let’s go.”
The restaurant isn’t as fancy as the ones we’ve been dining at so far, but it’s still nice. Nice enough for us to grease some wheels so we can get a more private table. Kathryn looks through the menu with a set face. I open my mouth to order, but she cuts me off. Before I know it, she’s ordered for the both of us. I don’t even get to use my sweet French skills… yet somehow she’s ordered. In French.
“What?” she asks when I stare at her. Kathryn is not even semi-fluent in French. She’s been having me translate signs ever since we got here. “You think I can’t shop and order food in French? I know how to get by here. I simply can’t have invigorating conversations with the locals.”
I shrug. “Makes sense to me.”
“Besides, you’ll like it. You need to stop eating the same old thing.”
Kathryn spends most of our dinner talking about this and that. The Louvre. The city. The countryside. The work she has to get back to when we go home. I listen, patient, searching for cues. It’s not just her tone. It’s the words she uses. Of course she’s well educated, but she’s also naturally eloquent. There’s a reason she’s so successful in her charities – and in my line of work. Once we became a couple, Kathryn started doing more freelance work for my family’s company. The only reason she hasn’t taken a full-time position as a future Mathers is because she’s so dedicated to her nonprofit projects.
Look at my girlfriend. What other man can say that he has someone as amazing as her? She’s so damn beautiful. I know I shouldn’t talk about her appearance first, but I can’t help it. It’s the first thing you notice about her! How tall she is. How light she is on her feet. The way she carries herself. That stern look in her icy blue eyes. Her silky blond hair she only wears down when she’s at home or being exceptionally fancy. (It’s a privilege to see her hair down. I may or may not love pulling on it. Ahem.) Her sense of style cannot be beaten. Whether she’s wearing a silk blouse and pencil skirt or trousers and a leather jacket, she knows how to dress herself for any occasion – and I can never wait to rip off her clothes and see her gorgeous nudity beneath.
Don’t get me started on how great she looks and feels naked. She has the softest skin I’ve ever felt. My hands want to explore every inch of her body and make it mine. When we have sex, I swear I am entering another plane of existence based on how good she feels wrapped around various parts of my body.
Her scent. Her touch. The taste of her lips on mine. The taste of her other lips on mine. The sound of her voice on the phone when I haven’t heard from her in too long. (A day is too long.) I could be having the shittiest time in Mumbai, and hearing her voice when I get back to my hotel makes everything better. She could be talking about her period cramps and I’ll be over here giddier than a guy freshly minted in love.
She’s charming. She has a heart made of pure gold. My parents love her. Her father doesn’t mind me, as long as he doesn’t find out about what we’re doing in the bedroom. She’s the smartest woman I know. The funniest, too. I am game for proving my love to her over and over for the rest of my life. I want to be buried next to this woman. If we’re cremated, mix our ashes together. It’s the only way.
Why the fuck am I not giving her everything she deserves?
Kathryn gets up to use the restroom while we wait for our food. I take the opportunity to call my assistant back home. She answers right away.
“Valerie,” I say, making sure this is quick. If Kathryn catches me, I’m in deep trouble. “I need you to find out the number for Kathryn’s mother, Marilyn Alison. Don’t call my mother unless you absolutely have to. If you do call her, make sure she knows that this is something Kathryn can not know about except on my terms.”
“Not a problem.” Valerie scratches something on a pad. She has the heaviest hand I’ve ever heard. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got a lead. Do you want me to call her and arrange something?”
“If you can. If she resists, forward her number to me.”
“Will do.”
When Kathryn returns, I’ve long since put my phone away. I’m still thinking about it, though. About that video locked deep in its vaults. I want to watch it again later tonight, this time picking up on every way in which my sweet Katie is actually a tough Kathryn in search of the perfect man to worship her.
Chapter 12
KATHRYN
I wake up alone. Or at least I confirm that I am alone in bed when I roll over and Ian is nowhere to be found. In the bathroom? Possibly. All I know is that it’s nine in the morning in France and I am boyfriendless.
Damn. I need to let my eyes focus before I run around making accusations like that. Because as soon as I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up, I find Ian carrying a tray of breakfast in my direction.
“Good morning,” he says, placing the tray over my lap. The smell of croissant and eggs hit me in the face, and my stomach wakes up, begging me to eat. A bowl of melon slices and half an orange round out my unexpected meal. “I woke up early and thought I’d spoil you.”
“S
poil me, huh?” I sound like an old hag. After five rounds of clearing my throat, I pick up a fork and sneak a bite of eggs. Whoops. Stomach is now wondering why we’re not having a wake-up trip to the bathroom. Really? Food so soon? “Does it count as spoiling me when you didn’t even cook it?” Like I can’t tell what came from room service.
I move the tray so I can get up and go to the bathroom. Ian watches me, intrigued. “You don’t like it.” No disappointment. An observation.
“I’ll eat it when I get back.” I stop long enough to give him a thank you kiss to the cheek. “Did you eat?” Like a great girlfriend I leave the door open so I can holler at him from the toilet. What? You think he hasn’t seen me be super unladylike about a hundred times by now? You should pity me for walking in on him taking those long as hell man-pisses. I’ve seen everything his dick can do and then some. It’s real love.
“I ate.” His voice enters the bathroom and echoes around my head. “Thought you might like some breakfast too. And I am spoiling you. All day.”
“All day, huh?” After washing my hands I wander back into the room, hand lingering on his arm before heading to the tray on the bed. Before I can pick it up, however, Ian shoos me away and does it on my behalf. Well, then. “Any particular reason?”
I sit at the table by the window. Ian brings over the tray and places the dishes in front of me, like a waiter. “Because you’re a woman who deserves no less.”
He walks away. I’m left sitting at this table in my pajamas, wondering what the hell is going on.
Okay. What did he do? You can tell me. Something got fucked up, didn’t it? Something nasty on that blog? What are they saying? Is he trying to dissuade me from looking? It’s bad, isn’t it? Come on, tell me!
…I will take your silence with nothing but the utmost suspicion.
Breakfast is good. I don’t find anything foul on my phone. A few texts from Eva about nothing in particular. Nevertheless, I feel something strange in the air.
“What would you like to do today?” Ian sits across from me. His posture is relaxed. His voice is softer than usual. Why is he deferring to me like that? “What would you like to do.” Not “What should we do today?” We had no plans for today. “I may have to meet someone else for dinner, but I’m going to be with you all day before and after. You choose what we do.”
My eyes narrow in greater suspicion.
What! This isn’t like him. I’m weirded out.
“I don’t really care what we do,” I say.
“What would you do if you were alone in Paris?”
Find a way to not be alone is what I want to say. There are lounges around here for a woman of my predilections. Trust me. France is teeming with my kind of men. I could walk into any BDSM lounge on any night of the week and find me a match for the night. How good he would be is a big variable… but I would find one, and I would get laid the old-fashioned way for a Domme.
Even I surprise myself when my brain goes straight there. Curious.
“If I really didn’t have anyone to meet up with, I would probably do some sight-seeing or go shopping. I doubt you want to go shopping again, though.” Men, right? Some of them blow smoke up your ass and swear that they love shopping as much as you do. They’ll even carry your bags, the sweethearts! Then you go shopping, and within half an hour they’re dead from boredom and wondering when you’ll have sex.
“What’s wrong with shopping? You think I don’t have to find some souvenirs for my mother?” Ian clicks his tongue. “If I don’t bring her back a bag full of Parisian goodies, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’s annoyed enough that I haven’t proposed…”
He stops. I pretend I didn’t hear that and keep eating my breakfast.
Forty-five minutes later we’re both dressed and heading outside. The sun is shining bright. There’s a cool breeze bursting through every few minutes that cools me down after running across a large intersection before the light changes. Ian is right behind me. Never at my side or two steps ahead like he sometimes is. The man doesn’t have to wear heels and will sometimes leave me in his dust.
We’re heading straight for the Avenue des Champs Elysées. My wallet’s itching to spend some money. Sure, I could buy a lot of this stuff back home, but this is Paris. For fuck’s sake, I spent my first day here shopping for couture. You think I’m not drooling at the thought of Chanel, Dior, and Louboutin raining upon me? I better buy some Givenchy for Eva, too. He’s her favorite to the point I joke he’s 75% of her closet.
I look back at Ian, who is never farther than a foot behind me. “I’m here,” he says. “Where are we going?”
There’s a Chanel boutique not twenty feet away. Chinese and German tourists are lining up to shop themselves silly. You may think it’s an intimidating line, but I’m Kathryn Alison. I’ve got a pass that says I’m welcome to do some private shopping whenever I feel like. Front of the line, always. A veritable Disney Fast Pass of designer fashion.
My eyes bat in my boyfriend’s direction. He doesn’t roll his nor suck in his cheeks, his usual signs that he would rather go pound some beers while his woman does her thing.
I grow ever more suspicious.
We go to the front of the line. Before the attendant can shoo us to the back, I pull out my black card and ID. Sure enough, we’re shown to a quiet corner of the store where I can shop in peace. If you count shopping with a mother and daughter who also have special privileges and keep squealing over the latest 2016 collection as peaceful.
I spend a long time looking at what’s available. It’s not that I don’t have the money to buy everything. Sure, I could, but I’m a discerning woman. I’ll stand and stare at everything for about half an hour before going That one. There’s a reason my closet isn’t overflowing like other women (cough, Eva) I know. I buy high-end items because they fit well and last a long time, not for the status. So while that mother and daughter are gushing about how popular they’re going to be when they go to their next party wearing a certain dress, I’m sitting here thinking about how much it’s not to my tastes. Instead, I drool over the beautiful, silky handbags.
I don’t know how Ian does it. He barely moves, except to look at a few things out of curiosity. He doesn’t bother me. He doesn’t pull out his phone and dither. He stands nearby without making me feel like I’m taking forever, even though I am. Is he on drugs? What kind of good shit is he getting off the streets of Paris? Where can I get some for the next time I have a panic attack and he’s not around to coddle me or spank me into accepting the cards I’ve been dealt?
When I ask him what he thinks of the latest classic flap bag collection, he doesn’t say a snarky, “How many handbags do you have, again?” What I get is, “The blue one isn’t really you. If you were to get one, it should be the silver or the red.”
I agree with him. I like the dark blue, but it doesn’t match my style. There are silver and red options, and I love both. Yet I know that I would never use both. I usually buy one main bag to use per season. I love Chanel bags because they’re stylish, elegant, and go with anything. I already have a new satchel for this year. I could use a new tote bag, though…
Instantly I gravitate to the red and silver shopping bags. “What do you think?” I ask Ian, holding one on either arm. He’s between both. “Red?” My left arm goes up. “Silver?”
Normally my male companions would say whichever color they like more. In Ian’s case, I know that’s red. “I like the red one,” he says, and I am far from surprised. “It matches the fire in your eyes.”
My left arm goes down. Whaaaat?
“The silver one is more versatile and the one I could see you using more. If I were shopping for you, that’s the one I would get.”
I’m still hung up on the comment about the fire in my eyes. “You like the red one?”
“Like I said…” his lips turn into a well-timed smirk. “It matches your personality. When I think of my lovely goddess, I think of a passionate, burning red.”
Oooookkaaaayyy.
I turn and put the red bag back on its mantle. The silver bag stays soft in my other hand as I model it in a mirror. I look at the price tag. $4900, American. Good buy for a bag I’ll use for the rest of the year.
My goddess, though?
Taste buds riot in my mouth as I make my purchase. The shopkeeper asks if I would like to use the bag now or if she should wrap it up. She asks me this no fewer than three times as I’m lost in space. Finally, I tell her to wrap it up. Ian steps forward and plucks the Chanel shopping bag off the counter. Normally he waits until I’m loaded up with bags before offering to carry any.
This is going to be a long and weird day, isn’t it?
***
Every woman deserves a man who is not only going to make her feel like a queen, but will happily follow her around Paris as she buys up every single store she comes across.
Now, don’t think I’m so selfish that I’m not looking out for him. I’ve already bought him two shirts and a new tie collection that is going to look so good on him I’ll be beating back every woman who crosses his path. He spent all morning talking about how he was going to spoil me? Turns out I’m the one spoiling him as usual.
Oh, I know how it goes. Women aren’t supposed to spend money on their men – especially if those men technically have and make more money than said girlfriends.
That’s such bullshit, of course. If a woman wants to spend money on her man, she should! How many times has Ian casually spent thousands of dollars on me as if it’s nothing? A scarf here. Shoes there. Watches and jewelry and hairpins galore. He has this habit of picking me up gold and gem-studded hairpins whenever he travels around the world without me. It never stops me from buying him gifts when I’m alone too, but it’s a completely different energy when we’re together.
You can see it in the shopkeeper’s eyes. Why am I buying things for my boyfriend? He looks perfectly capable of buying his own goodies. We approach the register, and even though I’m the one opening my purse and pulling out my (Chanel, oops) wallet, everyone turns to Ian, expecting him to pay. More than once he politely gestures to me while waiting for the bag to appear in front of us. Never says a word.
Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 9