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Would my parents disown me if they knew this? It’s my last thought before I explode into a shattering orgasm.
After a quick shower, I grab the key and make my way down the hall to the elevator. I can’t help but stop to admire the beauty of the hallway itself, though. Strange that it feels like the first time I’ve seen it, considering I must have been stumbling along the corridor the night before. Gold-framed mirrors give the illusion of expansiveness to the corridor and the Persian carpet is incredibly soft under my sandals. It’s strange to see so many reflections of myself—reflections in reflections in reflections. It feels right somehow. After Kelsey died, I was crushed, fragmented, a thousand different Jordans trying to find their place. And now that R has found me, he’s gathering me, leaving me with the pieces to put back together.
At the end of the hall from the penthouse where R is staying, is an old-fashioned cage elevator that brings the guest to the main elevator. It’s part of the security of the penthouse, as well as adding to the ambiance, I figure. Its creakiness combines with its transparent walls of old panes of glass to reveal the city of Paris in a mottled, romantic light. Much better than the Paris I can afford on my own accord with credit cards maxed—the Paris of drug addicts and homeless, dogs, graffiti, and fruit stands.
I transfer to the next elevator, which is slick and elegant in a completely different way. There’s a French woman in it, slight of frame, but dressed to the nines. She’s “of a certain age” as they used to say, but the way she’s put together, she’s incredibly attractive. She doesn’t meet my eyes at all, even though I’m practically gaping at her. This is the kind of taste I have to learn. Will I be able to find a proper dress in the shop to look half as good as this woman, who’s probably thirty years my senior?
But can I get anything? Will I be brave enough to go into the shop? It’s a huge step to go from buying coffee to shopping in a French boutique.
Stomach churning, I’m on the elevator, and that’s enough for now. I lean against the wall to take a deep breath. Unbidden, an image of him comes into my mind, his hips pressing into mine, his cock thrusting up into me, lifting me up. I gasp involuntarily, and I think the lovely French woman flickers a glance in my direction, but she stops herself from staring. Then the elevator sounds and its doors open to reveal a gorgeous, golden lobby filled with beautiful people.
Momentarily frozen, I almost let the doors shut again. It’s so fearsome to be in Paris on my own, especially in such an intimidating, chic place, but at the same time, it’s no less fearsome in the seedier streets of Marais, where my hotel is. Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and stride out, mentally invoking the image of R, and the feeling I feel when I look at myself in the mirror, seeing my beauty, the sexiness in my curves for what feels like the first time.
There’s a small group of boutiques in the lobby, and I slowly make my way toward them. I have never shopped on anyone else’s dime, but if we are going to dinner for his business partners, there’s no way I can do it in my sandals and cotton dress. If I’m not going to embarrass R completely I’ll have to be dressed properly, and I figure he wouldn’t offer if the money were any kind of issue.
Three boutiques in the hotel lobby sell dresses, each more beautiful than the last. They’re not even clothes, really—they’re more like creations—sculptures or paintings, things worn by vaguely humanoid beauties. I go into the first where the shopkeeper looks at me dubiously. She speaks to me in English. But how does she know I’m not French? I haven’t even said a word.
“Is zere somesing I can ‘elp you find?’ Her words—immediately addressing me in English—are tinged with a sense of disdain that is becoming familiar.
“Well yes, I’m looking for a dress,” I say hesitantly, desperately trying to hold on to the confidence that had that I need.
“Eez thees dress for you?” she says, mouth slightly twisted in a sneer.
“Yes, and I’ll be needing shoes as well.”
“Ah’m very sorry, but ah don’ theenk we ‘ave anything for you ‘ere, but you are welcome to look.”
Why not? I wonder, my last bits of confidence eroding. I have to get something. R won’t be happy with me if I don’t do the one thing he asked of me after everything he has done for me.
“Is there somewhere else you can recommend?” I ask, quietly. She turns her head quizzically to the side.
“Well, all the stores in this hotel, are how-you-say—tres cher. Very expensive.”
“Oh, that’s not an issue, I’m charging it to the room.”
“What room eez zat?” Ah. I’ve gotten her attention.
“The penthouse.”
“Oh.” Her face immediately brightens. “Perhaps I...how you say... misspoke. A dress, you say?”
“Yes, but if you don’t have anything that works for me, I can move along.”
She smiles. “C’est pas necessaire.” Casting an evaluating eye on my hips, my waist, and my chest, she walks to the corner and pulls out three gowns. “For what occasion eez theez dress?”
“For a dinner,” I say. “It’s a formal business event, but I don’t know where. I have to get something formal though.”
“Excellent. We will find you something flawless.” She holds the dresses against me, one after another, evaluating them with a quick and practiced eye. “Wrong color, too revealing. Ah yes. Here is zee one for you.”
It’s clearly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. For this to be for me is almost too good to be true. The dress is a soft champagne-colored lamé, beaded, with jaggedly-layered panels of black tulle, net and beads dripping from a tasteful neckline. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life—not only a piece of clothing, but a work of art. It seemed like something a fairy would wear. The label reads Rodarte.
I try to calculate the exchange rate on the tag, but it seems insane. Could ten thousand Euro really be over ten thousand dollars? It can’t be. There must be some mistake. The woman hustles me into the sumptuous fitting room complete with shoes. Money talks, I figure.
The dress slips over my skin like a whisper or a caress. It’s simultaneously soft and heavy against my skin. Cool. The beads are practically dripping against my flesh. My nipples harden as the beads slip over them, reminding me of my fantasy of R.
When I see myself in the mirror I’m shocked. My hair, plain before, now is transformed into something artful—the strands curl around my face in a way that seems wildly beautiful, rather than frizzy. Such is the power of the dress. The champagne lamé makes my skin glow, while the beads reflect colors in my eyes I’ve never seen before. I slip into the strappy shoes, while the store clerk assesses me.
“Zee dress is lovely. She is perfection. But ze shoes are all wrong.” She pulls out some studded high heels. “What do you wear? A sirty-six?”
