Page 105 of Valentine Nook
My balls tighten, and at the first strangling grip of my cock, I pull out, finishing her off with my fingers while I fist myself.
Hot ropes of cum shoot across her back, between her shoulders and on her hair until I’m totally spent and collapse onto her.
“Oh my . . .fuck . . .Holiday . . . what thefuckwas that?”
From somewhere underneath me, a giggle escapes. “Well, I’m definitely relaxed. But I don’t know if I can walk.”
CHAPTER 21
Holiday
Lando’s method of relaxation works until I arrive at the address to meet Marcy.
Marcy rushes to greet me, powering out to the car in heels I always long to take off the moment I step into them.
Ironically, they make her appear more French than American.
“Hi, doll, you lookfabulous.” She ropes me into a hug, kissing both cheeks, something she never does, and I have to pull in my smile. “The room’s all set up, and everyone’s super excited to meet you. We’ve done preliminaries, and now that you’re here, we’ll go through the finer points. There’s a presentation.”
I nod, doing my best to hold my shit together and not let my nerves get the better of me. I don’t even know where they’re from. I’ve been in dozens and dozens of meetings like this one, and I never feel like I’m on the verge of a breakdown.
But this, this feels momentous. Iwantthis.
This is the next five years of my life.
This gives me the freedom to choose the future I want,which is probably why I’ve convinced myself there are a dozen ways I could fuck it all up before the ink is dry.
Three women, the epitome of what I appreciate as truly French elegance, are waiting inside the front doors. They’re immaculate and chic—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect faces—and each wears a lipstick in varying shades of red.
There’s no subtlety when their eyes drop to the floor, slowly traveling back up. It’s a move I’m used to, one I always prepare myself for. Am I the same Holiday Simpson they were expecting?
I stand straighter, shoulders back, until eventually, dark red lips flicker in approval.
I high-five myself for the online shopping spree I began at eleven p.m. four nights ago, fueled by panic and a bottle of wine. Otherwise, I wouldn’t now be dressed head to toe in Chanel, holding a Dior clutch.
I figured I might not be able to speak French, but I canspendFrench.
There’s no rushing because they’re far toolaissez-fairefor that, but there is still warmth in how they hold their hands out to greet me now that I’ve met their IRL standards.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Simpson.” Bright red lips smiles. “Welcome. I’m Marie-Thérèse, head of marketing.”
“Bonjour,”I reply, reaching my limit on the language. “Please call me Holiday.”
She dips her head, sweeping her hand out in front of her, and guides me through reception until we reach a meeting room, where I find another six people waiting around a table laid out with designated seating.
An image of my face is blown up on the wall.
It’s one I don’t even recall having taken. I’m staring straight at the camera, fresh-faced, makeup-free, but there’s determination and steeliness in my expression that instantly bolsters me.
That girl up there is ready to take on anything. Therefore, so am I.
“Welcome, Holiday. We’re so happy to have you here,” Marie-Thérèse begins with her thick French accent before introducing everyone in the room, whose names I find myself repeating in my head so I don’t forget them. “Can we offer you refreshments? You flew this morning, yes? You needcafé.”
I nod as everyone else titters with light laughter. The typical icebreaker for these meetings. I excel at small talk, even though inside I cringe at how contrived it comes across.
“Yes, but only from England. I won’t say no to coffee, however,” I add with a laugh of my own.
“Bon.”
