by Cole, Tillie
“Okay.”
Harry kissed me thoroughly. When he pulled back, he said, “As for my house back in England, you will see it soon.”
I frowned. “What?”
“It’s HCS Media’s hundredth birthday. My father asked each publication’s boss to nominate a few people from their staff to be flown to our estate for a midsummer’s party to celebrate the milestone birthday. I saw and approved Sally’s list last week. She’s chosen you as one of the staff members to represent Visage.”
“What?” I asked again. Harry pulled me closer to the edge of the counter. I moaned when his hardness pressed between my legs.
“Let me show you around when you come.”
“Where will we be staying?”
“On the property. Everything is paid for. My father wanted it to be a real celebration.” Harry kissed my neck, my cheek, and then my mouth, and I became lost in his touch. “But I want you in my room, in my bed. With me.”
“Yes,” I said and closed my eyes.
The pasta was eaten later that night. Much later. I stayed with Harry that night, and the following few nights. No one knew outside of us two. And every time I kissed him, I felt myself falling deeper and deeper. And when he lay asleep, my head on his chest and his arm and scent wrapped around me, I knew the truth of what my heart beat. I never spoke those words aloud. But as I closed my eyes and Harry pulled me to his chest, his lips seeking out mine even in slumber, I couldn’t deny my feelings anymore.
I, Faith Maria Parisi, had fallen for Harry Sinclair.
And I had fallen for him hard.
Chapter Fifteen
“Sexy mama!” Sage sang as I strutted out of my bedroom like Gigi Hadid on the Paris runway.
“You look like a sexy glitterball,” Novah said.
“You all look amazing too. Sage, very suave. Amelia, blue is definitely your color, and Novah, Jessica Rabbit eat your heart out!”
“Drinks!” Novah shouted and poured us each a shot. Tonight was the Manhattan Media Charity Ball. Sage and Amelia were Novah’s and my plus ones. We were suited and booted and getting aboard the tipsy train.
“You got your vodka bra on, Faith?” Sage asked. With some crafty stitching passed down from Papa, my vodka bra was pumped and back in action.
“No need, my friend, it’s a free bar.” I waggled my eyebrows. “My natural C-cups can breathe freely tonight.”
“Ah, free bar,” Sage said. “The sweetest words that were ever spoken.”
“So,” Novah asked when we poured another shot down our throats. “Harry will be there.”
“Yes. And?” I said innocently.
“Oh, cut the shit, Faith,” Sage said and pressed his hand over his heart. “It’s like Cinderella, Brooklyn edition.”
“Faith, you’ve spent every night at his place this week. He drops you off at seven a.m. every morning and, truthfully, Sage and I have been watching you two French kiss your goodbyes from the window,” Amelia said.
“Perverts,” I said, narrowing my eyes on them both.
“You don’t tell us anything anymore,” Novah said. “We have to find out by our own devices.”
“Because I’m not sure what is happening!” I said, blowing out some pent-up frustration. “Yes, I stay at his. We fuck like nymphomaniacs on Viagra. But we haven’t talked about life outside his apartment. It’s new, and I have no idea where it’s going. We’re just taking it day by day.”
“You’re meant to be with Maître again tomorrow night,” Sage said. He threw his arm around my shoulders. “What are you gonna do, baby girl?”
“Go,” I said and saw shock on my friends’ faces. I sighed. “And tell him I’ve met someone and I can’t do the sexual torture with him anymore.”
“Oh. My. Fucking. Christ.” Novah stood right in front of me. “You like Harry. Like, like him like him.” I didn’t deny it. What was the point? It was true, and these were my best friends. I told them everything.
“Oh, Faith.” Amelia hugged me so hard I felt a lump build in my throat. “I’m happy for you. You deserve love. It’s all I have ever wanted for you.” I kissed her on the cheek when she released me.
“I’m freaking the fuck out,” I said, hand on my head, a low-grade freak-out setting in. “He’s Henry Sinclair III, a motherfucking viscount of Britain. I’m me, a chick from Hell’s Kitchen with a mouth like a sewer. I hate to say this, because you know I, in general, say fuck the man, and anyone who disapproves of any decision I make can eat shit and die. But there are so many things I don’t even know about Harry. His entire life back in England, for one. His father, who I’ve never even spoken to. All the pressures he’s under with his businesses.” I felt like I was about to hyperventilate. “He’s a billionaire. A fucking billionaire. I can’t even imagine that amount of money in my head, never mind dating someone who has that much in the bank.”
“Faith, come on. This isn’t you.” Sage took hold of my arms. “You’re Faith goddamn Parisi. And if you want Harry, and he wants you, just say ‘fuck you’ to the naysayers.”
“I know,” I said, and I shook the doubt from my head. “But even the ballsiest of us can have a little wobble now and then, right?”
“Right,” Amelia said, hugging me to her side. “But then we face the world, unapologetic about who we are. Yes?”
“Fuck yeah,” Novah said and handed us our final shot.
We knocked it back and headed for The Plaza Hotel. As soon as the cab pulled up to the curb and we entered the foyer, we saw the place was dripping in opulent crystals, and carefully arranged bouquets were perfectly placed around the entrance and in the ballroom itself.
Music poured from the DJ’s mammoth speakers, and round tables dressed in white and gold filled the room, allowing a large space for a dance floor. The place was packed with every businessman in Manhattan, it seemed.
“Drinks?” Sage suggested. We made our way to the bar. Sage grabbed us four glasses of champagne (of course). I scanned the ballroom, but it was a sea of black and white tuxes.
“Couldn’t he have worn something red and white—like Where’s Waldo?—so he’d be easier to find?” I said, just as I felt someone move behind me.
“That color palette doesn’t really suit my skin tone, I’m afraid.” I spun around and Harry was there, right before me, looking all kinds of hot and sexy in a fitted tux that hugged all his best places. He held out his arms. “Tailored courtesy of Lucio Parisi.”
My chest warmed and my heart swelled. Damn, I was pathetic. Really friggin’ pathetic and really, really in deep shit when it came to this sexy-as-sin viscount.
A devastatingly handsome blond man arrived next to Harry. He passed him a glass of champagne. He smiled when he caught me looking. “Faith, this is Nicholas Sinclair, my cousin.”
“And best friend,” he added, before shaking my hand. “So, you’re the famous Faith. I’ve heard all about you.” He ducked his head closer. “And just between me and you, I’m an avid reader of your column. I’m in the London offices, and I have to say your weekly column is the highlight of my Sunday.”
“Why thank you, kind sir,” I said, admiring another ridiculously fancy British accent.
I heard Sage cough behind us and fell forward a step when he elbowed me in my back. I fired daggers his way but then painted on a smile. “Harry, these are my best friends. You know Novah, of course.” Harry kissed her on the cheek. “This is Amelia, she is my roommate and best friend.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Harry said, his charm causing Amelia to blush.
“And this is Sage, the third strand to our tripod, our best friend and across-the-hallway neighbor.”
“Heard a lot about you,” Sage said.
Then it was Nicholas’s turn to be introduced. He greeted my friends with beaming smiles, but when he shook Sage’s hand, it was like he’d just seen the sun for the first time in his life (which, coming from England, may have been true)
“Sage?” he said. “Like the herb.”
&n
bsp; “The very one.” Sage held up his empty glass. “You need another drink, Nicholas?”
“Always,” he replied, and they moved to the bar. The sexual tension radiated off them like heat from a furnace.
“Well,” Harry said. “That didn’t take long.” He laughed and, discreetly taking my hand, squeezed my fingers. “Excuse us, ladies,” he said to Amelia and Novah.
Harry pulled me through the crowd and into a deserted alcove at the back of the room. “You look so beautiful,” he said and tracked his eyes down my halter-neck silver sequined dress. He admired my hair, falling in waves down my back.
“You look handsome too,” I said, and Harry cupped my face and crushed his mouth to mine. He moaned into my mouth.
“Tonight is going to be long,” he said and blew out a breath. “You’re coming home with me?”
“Oh, go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.”
“If it’s too much trouble,” Harry said, pretending to be offended at my jest.
“Fuck that. I want your massive cock in my mouth at exactly midnight. I—”
“Henry?” Harry stilled at the sound of his father’s voice behind us. King Sinclair rounded the corner and Harry straightened up, fixing his tie.
“Dad.”
King stared at Harry; then he slid his eyes to me. He smiled, but I felt the Arctic chill he was throwing my way. “And who is this?” he asked, holding out his hand.
I placed my hand in his and he kissed the back of it, just like Harry often did. But when Harry did it, I swooned like a damn lady. When King kissed me, I felt like wiping it on my dress but felt that response would be inappropriate and crass. Then again, he’d no doubt just heard me saying I wanted his son’s huge dick in my mouth, so I wasn’t sure how much further I could fall in his eyes.
“Dad, this is Faith Parisi. She works at Visage.”
“Really?” he said politely, but the tone was anything but. “Very good. A sound publication.” He turned to Harry. “I’m sorry to tear you away, but we have some people to meet, son. Business calls.”
“Of course.” Harry bowed his head to me like a true gent. “Miss Parisi, it was lovely chatting with you.”
“You too,” I said, feeling my heart deflate at his lack of affection in front of his father. As Harry walked away, he glanced over his shoulder, apology in his eyes. I guessed he just wasn’t ready for the meet-the-dad milestone yet. Taking a deep breath, I moved back into the ballroom and found my friends. I gave them a rundown on King’s frosty behavior and grabbed a few more drinks.
Suitably tipsy, we took our seats for the meal. Sage sat beside me, eyes fixed on Nicholas as he cut through the room to sit beside Harry at the head table, where King Sinclair held court.
“I’m in love.” Sage tipped his head back dramatically. “That accent. That fucking accent.” He turned to me. “How did you resist it for so long, Faith? It’s like hypnotic or some shit. Forget love potions, they just need to bottle a hot guy speaking with a British accent and it’ll have people falling at their feet.”
“So what you’re trying to say is that you like Nicholas?” I asked sarcastically.
“He’s perfect.” Sage sighed. “Now we just need him to move to New York, and we can run off into the sunset, get married, and live happily ever after.”
“That’s all?” Amelia said dryly. “A cake walk!”
“How’s Harry?” Sage asked. I filled him in on Alcove-gate.
“Nicholas didn’t say much but hinted at the fact that King is pretty hard on Harry.” My eyes drifted across the room, only to collide with Harry’s. He gave me a secret smile and took a drink of his champagne.
Just as our food began to arrive, a man approached Harry from a table near the champagne fountain. He was the same height and build, but he had light brown hair as opposed to Harry’s chocolate waves. God, that viscount was so perfect, I could just eat him up.
Harry got to his feet and embraced the man. From our table I could hear the low hum of their voices, then… “Are they speaking French?” I asked, my glass frozen in midair, hearing the language pass so fluidly from Harry’s mouth.
My friends listened closely. “Yeah,” Amelia said, and my heart kicked into a sprint so fast I was pretty sure it rivaled an Olympic sprinter.
“I didn’t know Harry spoke French,” Novah said. “Then again, he went to an expensive boarding school, it was probably part of the curriculum.”
I was stuck on Harry speaking in fluent French to this mystery man. “Who is that?”
Novah narrowed her eyes on the man, waiting for him to turn. When he did, taking his place at his table, Novah said, “Ah. I recognize him now. That’s Pierre Dubois…” Novah’s voice trailed off; then she met my eyes. I’d stopped breathing and was dangerously close to falling off my chair and slamming to the wooden floor. “He’s French,” Novah said, clearly on the same page as I was.
“Dubois,” I said. “Like the bank?” A friggin’ massive bank that had offices worldwide.
“Like the bank,” Novah said. She shuffled her chair closer. “Faith, you think he’s—”
“Maître,” I whispered.
Sage and Amelia whipped their heads to Pierre, suddenly invested in Novah’s and my conversation.
“He’s gorgeous,” Amelia said; then she looked at me. “And he seems to be good friends with Harry.” She paled. “Oh. He seems to be really good friends with Harry. How awkward.”
“Is it hot in here?” I said, destroying a napkin that had been folded into a swan and wafting it before my face, trying to grab some much-needed air. Harry and Pierre were friends. A man who was possibly Maître and Harry, who I had been sleeping with for a week. Friends. Of course they were. Pierre, who I was pretty sure had tied me up in every way imaginable and screwed me in every position in the Kama Sutra and beyond.
“I’m not feeling so good,” I said and got to my feet.
“Faith? You okay?” Novah asked.
“I just need some air.” I staggered toward the exit, my vision tunneling as I passed by Maître’s table. I felt myself swaying to the left, reaching out for something on which to find purchase. And find purchase I did, right on the champagne fountain.
My hand sliced through the central tier, bringing the entire thing crashing to the floor. I slipped on spilt champagne, landing on my ass, as the smashing glasses created a symphony around the room.
Of course this is happening to me right now!
Getting on all fours I tried to pull myself up, but I kept slipping on the wet floor, repeatedly landing on my ass, which, it turned out, was nothing at all like being spanked.
At this point, I felt the most humane thing to do, for myself and everyone else in the room, was to press my face into the small puddle of champagne gathering beside me and drown so I didn’t have to face the many people who were watching me humiliate myself right now. And what a bougie way to go out—drowning in Cristal. We were in The Plaza after all. Had to go out in style.
“Are you okay?” a heavily French accent asked. I raised my head, and there he was: Pierre fucking Dubois or, as I knew him, Maître Auguste, offering me his hand. I slipped my hand into his, allowing him to guide me to my feet. Let’s be honest, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen me on my knees. In fact, he’d seen me on my knees, my back, and my stomach; fastened in stocks; tied up in ropes; and chained to the wall…the list was endless!
“Are you okay?” he repeated, the music in the background partially disguising his voice. I glanced down at his hand. It was the right size for Maître. His height and build were so fucking right for Maître.
I couldn’t breathe!
“I need air,” I said and rushed from the room. I moved toward the main door, inhaling the bit of humid breeze the Manhattan summer offered. Security gave me side eyes, but damn them. Did they not know I had just seen my sexual master talking to my current lover?
“Mademoiselle, is everything okay?” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up hearing the thick
French accent again. I turned slowly, finally seeing him without the cloak and mask, bared to me in his all his Parisian glory. His brown eyes stared back at me. Not silver but deep brown. Perfectly coiffed hair, a strong jaw, and a clear view of those full lips that peeked just a fraction from the porcelain mask he always wore.
“I’m fine,” I said, finding my voice, which had decided to go off on vacation just when I needed it most. “I’m used to being on my knees.” I waggled my eyebrows, leaning forward, hoping he understood. It was time to cut the shit. I needed him to confess who he was. It occurred to me that he might not know who I was either. So I stepped closer. “One might say I’m on my knees as much as a sexual submissive.” Okay, it wasn’t subtle, but the guy had to understand now.
“Are you sure you are okay?” he said, his accent exactly the same as Maître’s. Was he fucking kidding me with this?
“Mon petit chaton!” I said, voice raised. Pierre didn’t show a hint of recognition; he just looked freaked out.
“Mademoiselle, I think you may have hurt your head when you fell.” I rolled my eyes. But just as I was about to bring up the use of clothespins as sexual toys, Harry came rushing from the ballroom.
“Faith!” He took hold of my face, studying my eyes. “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Just my pride is bruised,” I showed him the ass of my dress. “And I’m wet. Very wet.” I looked at Pierre then and bored my eyes into his. He exhaled a long breath, taking a large step back.
“I shall leave her with you, Henry.” Pierre pronounced Henry like “En-ri.” It was him. I knew it was. I stilled as I realized I now knew who the infamous Maître of NOX was. A man who was trapped in a mundane everyday life. He was a banker, how much more boring could a job get than that? He was familial money. Had pressures. Fuck me. Pierre Dubois of the Dubois Bank was Maître Auguste.
“Faith, you are worrying me,” Harry said. “You don’t look too well. You’ve kind of turned gray.”
“Yeah, I’m not feeling too hot,” I said and blew out a long and loud raspberry. I didn’t care that I was in The Plaza. This night had turned into one epic-sized clusterfuck, and I just wanted to go home. Maître had ignored my hints. Harry knew him, which only made it worse, then his father…
