Page 27 of Innocence Tamed
“Should you decide to proceed,” Pierre said, adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, “I will arrive at your apartment at eight o’clock this evening. You are to wear the white babydoll nightgown from your photo session, with the matching thong underneath. Nothing else.”
Heat flooded my face at his specific instructions, at the memory of those humiliating photographs.
“If I find you wearing anything else,” he added, his voice dropping to a register that sent shivers down my spine, “I will punish you. Do you understand?”
I managed a tiny nod, unable to meet his gaze.
“Good. I hope to see you this evening, Audrey.” With that, Pierre turned and walked out of the café, his movements graceful and controlled, like those of a predator confident in its power.
I remained seated, my coffee long forgotten, my hands trembling slightly in my lap. The other patrons continued their conversations around me, unaware of the life-altering exchange that had just taken place at my table.
After several minutes, I gathered my purse and stood on unsteady legs. The waitress caught my eye and smiled knowingly, as if she’d witnessed such scenes before—perhaps she had, in this city where Selecta’s influence seemed to reach everywhere.
I stepped out into the warm afternoon sunshine, blinking against its brightness. The Marais bustled with activity—tourists snapping photos, locals hurrying about their business, couples strolling hand in hand. None of them knew or cared about my internal struggle, about the choice that loomed before me.
There’s no way I’m going to do this, I told myself firmly as I walked toward my apartment. The very idea was absurd. Granting a stranger access to my home? Agreeing to wear… that. or… or be punished?
There’s no way.
CHAPTER 12
Audrey
I repeated the mantra all the way back to my apartment, my steps quickening with each block as if I could outrun the heat building between my legs, the shameful excitement Pierre’s words had kindled.
There’s no way. There’s no way.
Eight thousand euros. The sum kept flashing in my mind, tantalizing me with visions of financial security, of breathing room, of a chance to establish myself in Paris without the desperate scramble to make ends meet. And, if Pierre decided to deflower me… no, ifIdecided tolethim take my virginity, I would have enough to live well for a year, at least.
But it wasn’t just the money, was it? If I were being honest with myself—truly honest in a way I’d avoided for years—there was something else drawing me toward Pierre’s offer. Something that had nothing to do with practical concerns and everything to do with the way my body had responded to his commanding presence, his penetrating gaze, his absolute certainty.
As I approached my building, I found myself slowing, reluctant to face the decision awaiting me inside. The doorman nodded politely as I entered, and I wondered how much he knew about Selecta Arrangements, whether he could somehow tell that I was one ofthose girlsnow. The thought sent another wave of embarrassment through me, but underneath it, undeniably, was that persistent pulse of arousal.
The elevator ride to my floor seemed interminable. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes as I tried to sort through the tangled mess of my thoughts and feelings. What kind of woman was I becoming? What would my friends back home think if they knew? What would I think of myself tomorrow?
When I finally entered my apartment, the first thing I noticed was a white box on the coffee table that hadn’t been there when I’d left. The Selecta logo gleamed on its lid in subtle red embossing, outlined in silver. I approached it cautiously, as if it might contain something dangerous.
It did.
I lifted the lid with trembling fingers to find the white babydoll nightgown from my photo session, precisely folded atop tissue paper, with the tiny thong beside it. A small card rested on top, bearing a message in elegant script:For tonight’s lesson.—P.L.
He must have sent this right after leaving the café. The realization hit me with surprising force. Pierre had been so confident that I would accept, so certain of my response, that he’d arranged for this delivery while I was still sitting with my coffee, wondering what had just taken place.
I should be outraged by his presumption. I should throw the box across the room, delete the SA app, and find another solution to my problems.
Instead, I found myself lifting the nightgown from its nest of tissue, feeling the whisper-soft fabric between my fingers. It was even sheerer than I remembered, the delicate lace trim at the neckline and hem more exquisite. It would hide nothing from Pierre’s gaze. The thought made me shiver.
My phone chimed, the distinctive tone of the SA app pulling me from my reverie. I set down the nightgown and reached for my phone with unsteady hands.
Selecta Arrangements Notice: Sponsor Pierre Lemieux has requested apartment access.
The words seemed to pulse on the screen. This was it—the moment of decision. If I granted access, I’d be crossing a threshold from which there might be no return.
My finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. I thought again of those eight thousand euros, of the breathing room they would provide. But more than that, I thought of Pierre’s eyes, of the way he’d seen through my protests to the confusion beneath, of how my body had responded to his authority even amidst my conscious resistance.
I watched my finger move, as if another woman had forced it toward theYesbutton. The tip of my finger pressed the screen, as my heart jumped in my chest.
Access Granted.
