30. Michaela
Michaela
W ith an impatient flick of the wrist, I peruse the pages of the French Vogue magazine I grabbed from the stack to keep myself busy.
Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
I let out a long sigh.
I check the time on my phone and go back to being a bored, Stepford wife.
“It’s six-thirty.” I huff. “When will he get off that darn conference call?”
I didn’t expect this morning’s revelation to topsy-turvy Phoenix’s day.
He’s been locked up in the office in our suite on back to back conference calls.
He had me sit in on his calls with his father and brothers.
All three men share Phoenix’s acrimonious feelings for the duplicitous couple.
Once we updated his family—minus Roman, who doesn’t need to deal with this shit right now—he suggested I contact the art buyer for the hotels in France, Spain, and Italy.
Victorine Ardant was expecting my call. Giddy at the prospect of stepping into my new role as Art Director and Principal Art Buyer for Konig Imperial Holding, I met up with her.
Victorine gave me a tour of her studio and the storage room packed with art located in the basement of the Pompadour, Saint-Germain hotel. After the meeting, I called Phoenix to see if he was available for lunch. He was in work mode, so I invited Victorine instead.
She’s so French. Her personality is as effervescent as her name. It’s wild to share your first name with a famous Louis Vuitton luxury monogram wallet. We’re going to get along famously.
Contrary to Marie-Clémence, Victorine isn’t a stuck-up snob who looks down at people because they only speak one language. Victorine didn’t mind my accent or the fact I couldn’t remember certain French words.
We had a great time getting acquainted with each other better.
After lunch, I returned to the suite to find Phoenix still wearing his CEO-slash-COO hat. I knew this would be a honeymoon-slash-work week, but I was hoping we’d spend more time together.
Bummed out, I plopped myself on the sofa with my phone in hand. To keep myself busy, I called Keira to catch up and share all the details of my post-wedded bliss in Paris.
Then, I called Daddy. I told him about Brock and Thana.
He shared his unpleasant conversation with Potter.
The call with my father was supposed to be all shop talk, but it ended as an emotional thank-you-for-choosing-Phoenix-as-my-husband-instead-of-selling-me-off-to-the-dirty-old-man heart-to-heart.
I told him about Ripley’s disturbing perversions.
Daddy was horrified. We were both crying by the end of the call.
Since there was still no sign of my husband emerging from his office, I headed out to comb the streets of Paris, soaking up the unique atmosphere. I could’ve hit the shops to give Phoenix’s credit card a good workout, but there was something more pressing on the agenda. French desserts.
I could snap my fingers and get the pastry chefs at the hotel to deliver a scrumptious assortment to our suite, but it’s not the same as pastry shop hopping.
Not to mention, if you have to walk from one pastry shop to another you burn calories, which means you can keep stuffing your face silly.
As a result, I indulged in way too many lip-smacking sweets.
Full and riding a sugar high, I hopped in a taxi and made my way from Saint-Germain-des-Prés to the Pompadour.
So, here I am, waiting after my husband.
Phoenix promised his last conference call of the day would be quick.
He lied.
An hour later, he’s still locked up, and I’m still sitting on this sofa. Alone.
I’m starting to feel deprived.
Four days into my marriage and my husband is already ignoring me.
Well, we’ll see about that.
I set aside the Vogue magazine and make my way to that darn office.
I rap my knuckles against the door and wait.
He opens the door and waves me in.
I step inside and he closes the door.
“Hey,” he says in a theatre whisper.
I tip my head back to look up at him. “Hey.” I match his hushed tone.
My eyes shift to the six serious looking faces on the screen of his laptop.
He leans into me. “The camera is covered with a Post-it note,” he says. “I tend to pace a lot during long conference calls, and that drives people crazy.”
“Why not select not to let the app use your camera?”
“The Post-it note lets everybody know I’m growing impatient.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t expect this call would take this long,” he says, rubbing his temples.
He must be having quite the day because he’s still unshaven, which is unlike him. Even weary and drained, he’s still as gorgeous as ever.
A man with a deep voice and a British accent launches into an explanation of the revised renovation plans of one of the Pompadour London hotels.
Phoenix isn’t paying attention. Instead, his gaze is fixed on me. His blue eyes drop to my white designer heels and drag up my bare legs, up my body, pausing at my breasts before rising to my face.
“You look fucking hot,” he says before dropping a soft kiss against my lips.
I changed into a pretty dress before going out shopping. I had to bring on my A game because I’m in Paris. I love-love-love this iconic Diane von Furstenberg knee-length wrap dress. The black and white print stands out, and the electric-blue background resembles the Adriatic Sea.
“Thanks,” I say, with a coquettish smile.
“Did you go shopping?” He makes a move to untie the sash at my waist.
I shoo his hands away. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. CEO-COO?” I keep my voice low.
He chuckles and grabs me by the hand.
I follow him to the desk. “Do you want a drink? It’s cocktail hour somewhere in the world.”
He nods.
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Wine. Red.”
“Okay.”
I make my way to the mini bar to locate a good bottle. I still can’t get over the fact there’s also a full bar in the living room area. The Pompadour is the height of luxury.
As I move about the room, I’m keenly aware of Phoenix’s eyes on me. I peek over my shoulder.
His attention lingers on my ass, eyebrow cocked in interest.
I smile.
He doesn’t.
He stares at me. Or should I say, he devours me with his eyes. He runs a hand over his stubble, and my stomach flips as I long to feel it between my thighs again.
This conference call is becoming more of an annoyance with each passing minute.
Thank God for wine to pass the time.
I grab an exceptional Syrah I’ve had the pleasure of sampling before at Rhys’s place. I pour two glasses and sashay back to my husband.
“Thanks.” He mouths his gratitude and grabs the glass.
I nod.
I sit on the sofa across from his desk and cross my legs.
I lift my glass in salute.
He mirrors my move.
I take a long sip of wine, enjoying every nuance of the punch of flavor that greets my taste buds.
My eyes glance over to Phoenix’s to confirm if he shares my contentment with the wine, but the lovely Syrah is the last thing on his mind.
His attention is on my legs.
His gaze lifts and locks onto mine.
I arch a brow.
He arches one back.
I uncross and cross my legs, each time making sure the bottom of the dress rides a little higher up my thighs.
Phoenix narrows his gaze.
He’s onto me.
The newfound temptress in me takes over.
I position my leg so he gets a peek of the Promised Land.
He cocks his head to the side to get a better view.
The man with a deep voice and British accent stops talking.
Phoenix bounces his eyes back to the screen. “Thank you very much Gordon for the update.”
I giggle.
I doubt he heard half of what Gordon had to say.
Phoenix’s face contorts in a warning expression.
That only makes me giggle even more.
He focuses his attention on the screen. “Is there anything else that requires my urgent attention?”
“Actually…” a woman says. “Can we talk about increasing the budget for the two Spain renovations?”
“And I have a few things I’d like to go over about the Milan location,” another female voice says.
Phoenix rolls his eyes. “Sure.”
Good God, this conference call will never end.
I tune out the women’s voices, preferring to focus my attention on the exceptional wine.
From over the rim of my glass, I catch Phoenix staring at me.
I point to the laptop, indicating he should be focusing on the conversation.
He shakes his head and points at me.
I frown.
He cups his crotch and bites against his lower lip.
My pussy clenches in response.
Oh, someone wants to play.
I drop the wine glass on the side table, get up, and sashay over to him.
Something in his expression is dangerous. I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a dare.
Dare, it is.
I pull the tie at my waist and unwrap the dress to reveal an Agent Provocateur mesh bra and matching retro high waisted panties in a flattering ocean-blue shade.
The little red bow nestled in between my breasts and the one right below my bellybutton on the panties adds a touch of naughtiness to the sexy combo.
His eyes light up.
“Holy shit.” The words drop from his mouth.
“Holy shit, what?” the woman with the Spanish accent says.
Phoenix cringes. “Holy shit, that’s informative. Keep going.”
Good save.
The woman keeps talking.
I shrug out of the dress and kneel in front of him.
He reaches out and strokes with his thumb over my lower lip.
I reach behind me and unfasten the bra. I let it slide down my arms and toss it to the side.
Phoenix’s gaze drops to my bare breasts.
Fueled by desire, I bring my hands to my breasts and flutter my fingertips over my stiff nipples before squeezing them.
The blissful sensation travels all the way to my clit.
He shakes his head, as if he can’t get over my brazenness.
Neither can I.
Phoenix practically rips the shirt off his body before kicking off his shoes and removing his socks.
With impatient hands, he makes quick work of his belt buckle and zipper.
He lifts off the chair just enough to slide his pants over his ass.
I reach out and help him remove them all together.
He does the same with his boxer briefs and his cock springs to life.