Nights In Black Lace (11 page)

He kneeled behind her. Grabbed his cock, slid the head.

Christ, she was tight. And slick.

Whether he'd thrust in or she'd pushed back, he didn't know. But he was in deep. Bryan gave it to her good and hard, not holding back. He grabbed her just above the hips, wild for all of her, craving her goodness and her badness, driving in the prettiest pussy he'd ever seen, satisfying a hunger that was both emotional and physical.

Come
…was that her telling him to…
come!
It was like she was in his mind the second he got into her body and let that mysterious womanliness of hers take him over…take him down. He came, shuddering, gasping, almost crying. Trying not to break the soft creature he held. He came hard. So hard.

Like it was the first time.

The next day…

O
dette's atelier was a busy place. Bryan couldn't compare it to his mother's little dressmaking shop.

The place reeked of glamour, even though it was clear everyone who worked for her didn't have time for much of it themselves.

He had been introduced to Lucie, dressed in practical black, and flat shoes, and eyed by Marc, in jeans and a T-shirt with
Oh! Oh! Odette
printed on it. He'd shaken hands with her international sales analyst—who looked like every other sales guy Bryan had ever met. Carefully maintained comb-over. Boring white shirt, boring tie.

But then sales analysts weren't paid to be exciting.

All on her own, Odette created the glamour and excitement of her lingerie, and bras and panties.

She'd left him to his own devices for a while, disappearing into a meeting for her next collection.

“Didn't you just do one?” he'd asked.

“Yes. And I must begin the next right away.”

“Rush, rush, rush.”

“Bryan, if I don't some other designer will knock off my goods and steal my customers.”

He got the idea. Fashion was actually not for sissies.

Her staff ignored him politely. She'd told them to. And instructed them not to confiscate his camera if he took pictures, warning him again not to photograph anything that looked like a sketch or a mock-up of an actual design.

There were a few items he did recognize from his mother's shop.

Dressmaker dummies stuck with so many pins they looked like giant voodoo dolls.

Bolts of material, carelessly piled on shelves, as if they were taken out and shoved back a dozen times a day.

Pages torn from magazines and pinned up on bulletin boards.

Buttons, trims, scraps and swatches—all the fribbly stuff he'd played with as a little kid under his mother's sewing table.

It was kind of nice to know that everything wasn't done by computer. But there was no hum of sewing machines in the workshop. Prototypes were made here but that was about it. The staff talked in low voices and several different languages on phones, or typed on computer keyboards.

He took a few shots that didn't break any rules he'd been given, then turned off the little camera to save the battery.

Odette herself would be a lot more interesting to photograph.

Especially her face. Beautiful, sometimes moody, sometimes animated—he loved to look at her.

Too bad they didn't have much more time left.

Fuck whirlwind romance.

He stared out the window, watching pigeons parade on its ledge. A big one—he guessed it was male—was cooing hopefully to a smaller one, probably female. The she-pigeon looked a little doubtful. Double fuck. Was it possible that he sounded just as goofy talking to Odette?

They'd walked over here from her apartment, with her in her apparently favorite place, tucked right under his arm. He'd whispered sweet nothings all the way, interspersed with a few horndog comments that were meant to make her laugh. People had smiled at them. The French really were romantic.

A soft tap on his shoulder turned him around. “Birdwatching?”

“Kinda. Done with the meeting?”

“For now.” She took his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“My office.”

“Okay.” He wasn't all that comfortable with Public Displays of Affection in a workplace, but he kept her hand in his.

He reminded himself that she owned this workplace and could do whatever she wanted. For some reason, that thought didn't ease his mind much.

Odette opened the door, and led him in.

“Wow.” Not exactly a sophisticated response, but wow was the word. He'd seen the windows from the outside, been impressed by their height. From the inside, even on an overcast day, it felt like she had the sky for the ceiling. He didn't even look at the rest of the office.

“Like the windows?”

Bryan stopped craning his neck to look at her. “Yeah, I do. Almost feels like being outdoors.”

She nodded. “To you most of all. Marc said you were outdoorsy-looking.”

“Not exactly,” he corrected her. “I like being outdoors. There's a big difference. I'm a California guy. Sun, sand, surf—” He broke off.

Odette was laughing. “You can get the first two in Paris. In summer they pour tons of sand along a part of the Seine.
Voilà!
Instant beach.”

He thought of the half-mile long waves at beaches he knew in southern California and the rugged, fogbound beauty of the coastline to the north where he'd done some undergrad research. For a marine biologist, heaven on earth and underwater. Otters, seals, kelp forests—

So go back, he told himself. “That's great,” he said. “I'd love to see it. Paris has everything.”

“We like to think so. I would like to see California.”

“Really? You've never been?”

“
Alors,
no.”

“I'm taking you.”

She smiled and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “Someday soon. For now I am too busy.”

“I can see that.”

She was different today, all business, from her neat suit she'd worn to impress investors who'd attended the meeting to her severe chignon. He thought the look was interesting; he knew she couldn't always wear funky chic.

But dressed like this, she was a far cry from the wanton woman he'd had so much fun with last night. Was this corporate cutie the real Odette Gaillard?

Hard to tell.

He liked her best of all in black lace. Ripped black lace.

Bryan gave a sigh that made her look up into his face. “What's the matter? Bored or hungry?”

“Neither, babe. Tell me about your new collection.”

She smiled and went over to a fat ring binder in the middle of her desk, flipping it open and sticking the sketches under her arm in the middle of the binder.

“I got the idea for it the night I met you at Chez Prune.”

He laughed. “It doesn't involve actual prunes, does it?”

“No, no. Prune means plum in French. But no plums either.” She looked at him a little wistfully. “It was because it was raining—and I love the rain—”

“It does seem to inspire you.” He gave her a wicked grin.

Odette colored slightly. “In many ways,
m'sieu.
Not just sexually.”

He held up a hand to indicate that he'd meant no offense. “Sorry. Go on. I'm listening.”

“It is the colors. The background of gray intensifies them all. Wet reds. Electric blues. Glowing against black streets. Paris in the rain is beautiful, especially at night…” She hesitated, looking anxiously at him. “I was going to you. And that was part of what made it so wonderful.”

Bryan just gaped at her. What in the hell could he say? She had just about made up a love poem on the spot. He couldn't top that, not in a million years.

“I think I understand,” he said finally.

The anxious look had disappeared from her face when he looked at her again.

“Anyway, I had been playing with this unusual gray silk—” All business, she pulled out a swatch from somewhere in the ring binder and waved it at him. “It shimmers beautifully. And the phrase
Paris in the rain
seemed to go with it. I thought it might do for a design concept.”

“Did your, uh, team like it?”

“No,” she said crossly. “Not any more than you seem to. I suppose it is too personal.”

He studied her for a long moment, still unsure of what to say.

“Fashion has to appeal to many, many people to be profitable. So it is not all about, tra la, my incredible creativity.”

“You are really creative. And a really good businesswoman.” The words sounded a little forced, but he did mean them.

Odette sniffed. “I should make up my mind and be one or the other.”

“Do you have to?”

“No.” She shut the ring binder and sat down in her swivel chair. “Not yet. I need to grow the brand for a few more years, license the name—then I can get out.”

“You want to?”

“I don't want to hate what I do. Eventually some gigantic corporation will gobble me up. Even if they don't, I have enough money to live on for the rest of my life right now.”

“Congratulations. Wish I could say that.”

Odette put her arms on the arms of the chair, and rocked. “I have been very lucky.”

“I think there's more to it than that.”

“I know what women like. And I know how to design fashion that is inexpensive to make, but can be sold for a fortune. Josi Natori did the same thing with little silky robes. I didn't invent the business model either.”

“Okay, okay.” He was baffled by her bad mood. “I don't really know what I'm talking about, so I should probably shut up.”

“You are being nice to me.” She glowered at him.

Bryan blew out an exasperated breath. “I will never understand why women get pissed off about that.”

“Because you don't take us seriously.”

“Odette, please. We don't have a whole lot of hours left. Could you save this for the next—”

“For the next guy? Is that what you were going to say?”

“No.” He was pissed off now. Just a little. But definitely pissed off. “I was going to say the next time we met. I was thinking of coming back.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. Unless you don't want me to.”

Odette shook her head. “I do. I am sorry, Bryan. The meeting did not go well and I am taking it out on you.”

“Don't sweat it.”

She began to pace and he noticed the track in the carpet. Apparently she did it a lot.

“Ruffles and bows. Sugar and spice. Little mice with big eyes—
mon Dieu!
” She threw up her hands. “The Japanese are my biggest customers right now and they want cuteness—they call it
kawaii.
So I will learn to be cute,” she hissed.

He had to smile. His beautiful she-cat looked like she could eat cute little mice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner right now.

“It's not the end of the world,” he said gently. She was entitled to be temperamental. Even his mom had grumbled about adding Cinderella bows to the backs of prom gowns and wedding dresses. Like a neon sign for Look At My Big Butt, she'd said.

“No. I suppose not. Thank you for listening.”

“No problem.”

She went back to her desk and checked her planner next. “The fitting models are coming in soon. Do you want to watch that?”

“Am I allowed to?”

“Of course.”

“Anything I need to know first?”

“They stand around with no clothes on. We have to turn the heat up.”

He gave her a wry smile. “Sure. I'll watch.”

 

Odette with pins in her mouth and a measuring tape around her neck and glasses sliding down her nose was yet another different woman.

He could tell she liked working with her hands. The experience transformed her.

He tried not to stare at the naked fitting model, but Grischenka Oblomov didn't seem to care. She looked off into space, over his head. Close up, models just weren't that great as far he was concerned.

Okay, on the plus side, this one had ruler-straight, white-blond hair down to her waist and apple boobs. But she was six and a half feet tall, with skeletal legs and no ass. Both minuses.

Odette had caught him scoping Grischenka out before they reached the glassed-in fitting room. “She has perfect breasts. That's all I need to fit a bra design. Everything below that is of no consequence.”

“Got it.”

He didn't like himself for judging the model the way he had, even if Grischenka did seem kind of d-u-m-b. But she obviously hadn't eaten for days and she couldn't help the body she'd been born with.

Judgy-Wudgy was a bear, he told himself. Was the fashion mindset catching?

He looked over Odette's shoulder into the mirror and wondered what the hell she saw in him.

It was the second time around for the wool sweater he'd worn to Chez Prune and it still wasn't quite dry. He pushed up the sleeves. The damp cuffs were irritating. Then he ran a hand through hair he didn't even look at as a rule, trying to shape it a little.

Marc came in waving a sketch and Odette
p'too
-ed the pins out of her mouth and put them in her pocket. He conferred in French with her, then went out again, giving Bryan a brief wave. He'd handed Odette the sketch—she was frowning at it now while Grischenka stood and yawned, then looked at her nails which were bitten down to the quick.