Page 104 of Close Contact
“You’re being recognized as one ofFrance’s Thirty Most Impressive Women Under Thirty. That’s not just big. It’smonumental. This is the moment. The attention you’re bringing? It’s bigger than the podium. It’s a cultural shift. And if we’re smart, we can make it last.” She gave me a look full of promise. “We can help each other. I know the media inside and out. I can protect your image and elevate it. Not just as a driver, but as amovement.”
Before I could reply, the door at the top of the stairs burst open with a bang.
“Aurélie? What the hell are you doing down there?” A wide-eyed assistant leaned out, followed by two more, all clutching clipboards and panic. “You’re fifteen minutes late. Everyone’s waiting for you!”
Shit.
I turned back to Ivy, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. I should’ve told her I didn’t have time. I should’ve blown her off, walked away, kept my walls up, but I didn’t. There was something about her that made me want to hear the rest of her pitch. Maybe it was her recognition of everything I was doingrightversus everything I was doingwrong. Which the media loved so fucking much to point out.
Instead, I gestured up the stairs. “Come on,” I said, voice quiet but firm. “You might as well follow me.”
Ivy stayed close as I was rushed down the hall like a fugitive finally being dragged to judgment. My pulse was haywire, and my nerves were completely frayed. You’d think that a couple of orgasms would’ve relaxed me, but here we were.
Assistants fluttered around me, ushering me into a brightly lit dressing room. Someone was already unzipping a makeup bag. Another was fluffing my hair with a teasing comb. It all happened so fast, my head spun.
“She’s here! She’s here! Someone grab the wardrobe rack—oh, God, your lips?—”
“Where have youbeen?” one asked, completely frantic as she paced the room. “You look?—”
Another assistant stepped closer, then stopped, her eyes narrowing. “You look freshly fucked.”
The entire room stilled. For not the first time tonight, I stopped breathing. Ivy, hovering by the mirror, arched a brow. This bitchknew, and suddenly I was entrusting her with a career-ending scandal.
The silence dragged for a beat too long.
Then the assistant gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, myGod, youare!”
I went crimson. I could feel it blooming from my chest to my cheeks. My ass was still sore from being spanked, my panties still wet. I felt, in every sense of the word,fucked. But these strangers didn’t need to know it. Ivy, cool as ever, took a casual step forward, arms crossing as she surveyed the room as if she’d just been promoted to Creative Director.
“Well,” she said with a dry smile, “isn’t that theexactvibe we’re going for tonight?” She gestured toward me. “Look at her. It’s literal editorial gold. Raw, daring, and sexy as hell.”
The assistants paused, visibly recalibrating, clearly trying to work with what they had. Which, judging by a glance in the mirror, wasn’t the easiest pill to swallow. My voluminous styled curls were tangled, the skin around my mouth red and my lipgloss worn off, my mascara a little bit smudged.
One nodded slowly, then another. “Okay, yeah. We can work with that.”
Suddenly, I was being spun toward the vanity. They fluffed my hair a little higher, spritzed something floral and sticky over my shoulders, and dabbed concealer under my eyes. My lipstick was reapplied in a shade calledAfterglow. The irony, I swear to God.
Ivy caught my eye in the mirror, a devilish smile playing on her lips. I narrowed my eyes at her in return, silently telling her to keep her goddamn mouth shut if she wanted another one-on-one conversation with me.
Minutes later, I was being ushered out onto the set, kitten heels clacking on the floor. The lights were already blazing, the flash umbrellas positioned, the creative director mid-rant about lighting angles.
The set itself was a dream—lush red velvet draped across a steel-framed backdrop. Neon lights glowed in crimson and gold behind me, throwing shadows that danced across the floor. A single chair sat in the center, vintage and oversized, with an open back and a dramatic curve that practically begged for something sinful.
The team photographer waved me toward it. “Right there, babe. Give me tired and sated. A little messy, like you’ve just been ruined.”
I blinked. Ivy barely contained her laughter behind me.
“Oh,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “They havenoidea.”
I shot her a dirty look before sauntering over to the chair.
I eased into the shoot without thinking, muscle memory taking over. My body moved on autopilot, limbs stretching, arching, obeying quiet cues from the photographer. Chin up. Eyes low. Fingers in my hair. Spine curved. One knee hooked over the arm of the velvet chair, the other dropped to the floor so my legs were spread wide.
It was instinctual now, this seduction for the camera. I’d been doing it long enough to know how to disappear into the moment, to project the fantasy they wanted, but I wasn’t really here, not entirely.
I could still feel him, still taste him. The burn in my thighs, the bruised swell of my lips, the heat that hadn’t left me since I ran barefoot through the paddock like a feral little thing chasing the high of being desired.
My gaze drifted toward the back corner of the studio. Ivy leaned against the wall, her arms folded, mouth curled into something half-smirk, half-study. Every so often, she’d raise a brow at a pose, or bite her nail in amusement, but she never interrupted, just watched.
