33. Chapter 33 Margot
Chapter thirty-three
Music blares from the speaker on my vanity as I get ready, and I welcome the positivity on a cold, dreary New York day.
It’s a big day for La Reine . We’re preparing for our final walk-through of the staging for our Valentine’s Day collaboration.
It’s with the most prominent jeweler in the city, and I need to bring my best efforts to ensure everything goes smoothly.
I fasten my hair back in a quick chignon, thank you, French friends for your life hacks, and pull my vintage black tweed blazer over my black midi dress.
A gold brooch and a pair of pumps complete my look, and I grab my bag before heading down to meet my driver for the short ride to the store.
Or at least, I try to head down to meet my driver.
I don’t make it very far before I trip over one of the rolled-up rugs stored against a wall, sticking out into the open archway I foolishly tried to walk through.
Ugh. I really need to take Mom up on her offer to have her interior designer come and have a look at this place.
Maybe I went a little crazy with the vintage shopping in France, but when the antique markets are filled with things that predate the US as a concept…
what was I supposed to do? Leave the solid-gold candlesticks depicting a Grecian orgy?
Leave the console table carved with scenes from The Tempest?
I smile, thinking of the fact I made an actual “gimme” gesture when I saw it, like a desperate little hoarder raccoon.
Wincing, I flex my ankle a few times, thinking that the hoarder definition might be hitting a little close to home.
Resolving myself to give Mom my permission to call the designer, I finally make my way down to the car.
By the time I arrive at the store, I’m only fifteen minutes early instead of the thirty I prefer, but with one more deep breath, I enter boss-bitch mode.
I wish I could say I found being in charge tedious, but honestly, I live for this.
We dive right into work, reviewing the staging for our live mannequins.
Models of all colors and sizes will be wearing pieces from La Reine while dripping in diamonds and other pieces from the brand’s Valentine’s collection this year.
The collection is one of my favorites that I’ve designed so far, featuring the store’s signature color alongside my brand’s classic black and white, as well as three shades of pink and red for the holiday itself.
It’s a little more whimsical than anything I’ve ever designed, and early feedback suggests that it’s expected to sell out quickly, especially with the increased visibility we’ve gained from this collaboration.
The morning flies by, and before I know it, I’m back in the car heading for my New York storefront, also getting ever closer to opening day.
From the time I click a heel down just inside the door to climbing the cantilevered staircase to our third-floor offices, I’ve been asked twelve questions, answered three calls, and only snapped at someone once, but really, who re-heats fish in a communal microwave?
They’re lucky I didn’t fire them on the spot.
Mom arrives just in time for us to share lunch, with a thick manila envelope tucked under her arm. I jump up and let out a squeal, causing her to laugh and hold it out of my reach when I try to grab it.
“Excuse me, I know I raised you better than that!” She laughs.
Rolling my eyes, I let out a good-natured huff of exasperation. “Yes, of course. Hello, Mother, good afternoon. How are you today? How was your drive in? How is your back feeling? Thank you for gracing me with your presence.”
Mom rolls her eyes back at me, but finally hands over the envelope. “I’m fine, it was fine, it’s fine, you’re welcome. Now let’s eat and look over these final proofs.”
I eat for fuel, but only have eyes for the atmospheric, delectable, titillating images before me.
This collection, Noir , is one that’s been burning in the back of my mind since I saw a particularly raunchy French film with one of the men I saw casually in Paris.
It was a low-budget exploration of desire and, frankly, pornographic, but it depicted an entire world of sexuality I had never given much thought to.
Nothing about the film changed my personal sex life, other than Michel being extra feral that night, but the visuals stuck with me.
Leather, chains, ropes, metals…I was enthralled.
Purples and blues so deep they were almost midnight black, not virginal whites but cool-toned grays.
Noir was born. It’s so different from my previous collections that I wasn’t the only one somewhat stumped about how to adjust our advertising.
Of course, my team and I fretted for far too long before Mom piped up with the solution—debut Noir in conjunction with Ledger and Jack’s club.
She was right, of course. A BDSM collection debuting at the hottest kink club in New York right now is inspired. So we’ve been full steam ahead, and the final proofs of the collection are perfect.
“Mom, these are so beautiful I could cry. I won’t. But I could,” I say, still focused on my creative vision come to life in front of me.
“Yes, Jack couldn’t stop complimenting them when he saw them earlier. I hope you don’t mind. We had breakfast together,” she replies, eyeing me with a look I can’t quite decipher. I’m no stranger to the Blanche Sinclair book of machinations, however, so I give a noncommittal hum and redirect her.
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” I ask, feeling only slightly guilty about hoping she’ll cancel. Something must flash across my face because she’s up, kissing my cheeks, and heading for the door before I can blink.
“Sorry, darling, but I’ve had something pop up. Rain check?”
“Of course, talk tomorrow. Love you.” I drop back into my chair and consider another coffee before deciding to head home.
Finally, I sink into my clawfoot bathtub, sighing as the warm water soothes my sore muscles.
My evening consisted of an hour-long Pilates class, a massage, some sauna time, and a quick dinner of fruit and cheese.
It’s almost midnight, and I still have a couple of hours of me-time before bed.
I’ve never been a morning person, and I haven’t allowed being a small business owner to change that.
It’s probably one of my more privileged takes—nothing is worth getting out of bed before ten o’clock in the morning—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to change.
Being rich has certain perks. Ugh, Paris turned me into a snob.
I don’t actually think I’ve changed, not really.
But there’s something to be said for great wine, great food, great fucking…
I smirk and think about my reminiscence of Michel earlier today, and the naughty film that led me to Noir .
He was a great friend to me and an even better lover, and one of the first in my lineup of tall, dark, and handsome friends in Paris.
Michel was my age, a classical musician, and always willing to accompany me to an art gallery opening or play performance.
We parted on great terms, and I smile, thinking of his black curls and dimpled cheeks.
Feeling loose and relaxed in my bath, I reach for the waterproof vibe I keep in my bathroom for this exact reason, and put it between my legs as I think back to my last night with Michel.
“Ah, mon ami, then we need one last sweet memory together, non?”
He invited me to a hotel suite for our final tryst. For now, he told me earlier with a wink. Our final tryst, for now.
His suggestion was to spend the entire evening naked, and I have to say, it’s erotic in a way I wasn’t expecting.
We haven’t fucked yet, but we have eaten a three-course meal and drank an entire bottle of champagne.
We’re now feeding each other tiny slices of fruit as we watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle.
It’s surprisingly sensual to watch Michel’s naked body as he eats, his lean muscles flexing and pulling as he reaches over to feed me a piece of his dinner, his cock remaining half hard but twitching when I moan as a perfect bite of dessert hits my tongue.
We haven’t done anything except eat and chat about nothing, yet I know the blanket I’m sitting on will have a wet spot when I stand.
Something about watching his thick cock rest against his thigh is making me crazy.
When we’re finished, we make our way to the large whirlpool tub in the suite and climb in, finally allowing our bodies to connect as I move to straddle Michel, trapping his cock against his stomach with my wet pussy.
He loves this, and we’ve gotten each other off countless times making out and rubbing against each other like horny teenagers.
I think that’s what he has in mind for our first orgasms of the night before he stops me and pulls back to look into my eyes.
“Ma belle,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Have you ever used a whirlpool jet to its full effect?”
I give him a quizzical look before he repositions me on my hands and knees and backs me up to the edge of the tub. I’m considering trying to get his dick in my mouth before he presses a button and a jet of water hits my clit.
“Fuck!” I scream. Michel chuckles and lowers himself to my eye level.
“I love it when you scream in pleasure, Margot,” he groans. “I want to hear you do it again when you come just like this.”
I’m rocking back and forth now, looking into his eyes as he stares at me ravenously, and when he reaches down to thrust three fingers inside me and thumb at my clit, I implode.
I’m about to come just from my memory of my last night in Paris, here in my bath in New York, with my thumb on my clit and my too small vibe inside me…but I can't imagine my dark-haired Michel with brown eyes.
I shatter with a scream, and this orgasm feels even more intense than the one that inspired it for reasons I don’t want to contemplate.
My head falls back on the rim of the tub as I feel myself pruning and the water growing cold.
I try to pretend, but I’m not delusional enough to convince myself that I saw anything in my mind when I was coming, but the truth.
A brown-haired, muscled giant was looking at me with the deep blue eyes I thought I was done with.
Fuck.