“I have perfectly functional underwear.”
“We’re not buying it for function.” Enzo’s eyes have gone dark in a way I recognize.
I open the door. “Let’s go.”
I catch the eye of our security detail and gesture for them to wait outside. Some moments don’t need an audience.
She looks between Enzo and me, then at the window display, then back to us. Then a smile spreads across her face as she walks inside.
The boutique is decorated in pinks, with velvet chairs and soft lighting. An elegantly dressed woman takes one look at Remy and gives her an approving smile.
“Mademoiselle, if you’ll allow me to take a few measurements, I can select the perfect pieces for you.” She produces a measuring tape and gestures for Remy to follow her. Remy glances back at us nervously, and the woman smiles. “We have a private area just here. It will only take a moment.”
She guides Remy into a dressing room while Enzo and I sink into the plush chairs to wait.
A sales associate appears with champagne. Because apparently, that’s what you do in Paris.
Ten minutes later, Remy emerges with the sales associate, who’s carrying an armful of carefully selected pieces. She holds up a cream silk set: a bra with delicate lace trim and matching high-waisted panties.
“Well?” Remy’s cheeks are pink. “She says this one is classic. Timeless. What do you think?”
My champagne glass freezes halfway to my mouth. Even just seeing the delicate fabric makes my cock hard as I imagine it against her skin.
"That's perfect." I set my glass down, not trusting myself. "I want to see how wet you get that silk before the night's over."
Remy's eyes go wide. She glances at the sales associate, mortified. But I catch the way her thighs clench. The sales associate is a professional, not reacting to anything she just heard.
Enzo sets his glass down carefully. “We’re getting that one.”
“And several others.” I manage to sound casual. “Show us the blush set next. And the black one.”
Over the next twenty minutes, the sales associate brings out different sets—creams and blushes and blacks, silk and lace in various styles. Remy holds each one up, asking our opinion on colors and cuts while the associate offers expert commentary on quality and fit. All I can focus on is the mental images of Remy wearing each piece.
Each set is more beautiful than the last.
By the time we leave, we have four more bags, and I’m questioning my self-control.
Remy links her arm through mine as we walk back to the hotel. “Thank you. For all of this. For Paris. For making me feel like I matter.”
“You do matter.” I pull her closer. “More than you know.”
Back at the hotel, we drop the bags in Remy’s room. We order room service and eat on the terrace as the sun sets.
The conversation winds down as darkness falls. Remy stands, stretching. “I should probably turn in. Thank you again. For everything.”
She kisses Enzo’s cheek, then mine, and disappears into her room.
Enzo and I sit in silence.
“This is going well,” he finally says.
“Better than well.” I collect the empty plates. “She’s letting us in.”
We’re cleaning up when Remy’s door opens. She steps into the living room, and every coherent thought evaporates.
She’s wearing the black lingerie. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Her skin glows in the soft light.
The plate I’m holding slips from my fingers. I catch it at the last second.
