Things I Wanted To Say: Chapter 44

THE NOTE—IT’S more like a missive, like an old-fashioned calling card—is left tucked between my door and the frame. I notice it as I approach the door of my flat, my steps slowing, curiosity filling me. I tug at the piece of paper, impressed by its sturdiness. Thick, cream colored cardstock with elegant black embossed typeface.

An invitation.

You have been cordially invited to dinner

By

Montgomery Michaels the IV

At

Guy Savoy

Friday, April 22nd

Eight o’clock

Please RSVP

Smiling, I walk inside my flat, shutting the door and leaning against it as I type out a quick text to Monty.

Me: Got your invitation. RSVPing.

He answers quickly.

Monty: Perfect. This is by far the most delicious and expensive place you’ll ever eat.

Me: Of course it is. Who all is coming?

Monty: People.

That’s all he says. People.

Me: How many?

Monty: Enough to make it interesting.

Me: How should I dress?

Monty: Sexy elegance. I suppose I should’ve put that on the card.

Me: I can’t believe you went to so much trouble just for a dinner invite.

Monty: I don’t do anything half-assed. You should know that about me by now.

I send him a string of laughing face emojis.

Monty: You’ll need a new dress.

Me: I will?

Monty: Whatever you have in that tiny closet in that tiny flat of yours, won’t do.

I had Monty over yesterday for drinks before we went out to dinner. He hated every minute of it. Said my small apartment made him feel claustrophobic. I just laughed and let him whine for a while before we went and had dinner at one of the outdoor restaurants on the Seine. It was such a beautiful night, and we were surrounded by couples. Lovers.

It made me miss having a man in my life. Though I have no idea what it’s like, to be in a normal relationship. Something long-term and full of love. I’m young, almost twenty, I still have plenty of time.

But I long for that. For a man to look at me with hunger in his gaze. To reach for me as if he can’t help himself. I want to be adored. Ravished. Loved. I want it to be big and wonderful and messy and overwhelming.

I want what I had with Whit.

My phone dings with another text from my friend.

Monty: We’ll shop tomorrow. Do you have class?

Me: In the morning.

Monty: In the afternoon then. I’ll make an appointment. They’ll pull dresses for you and give us champagne and a giant dressing room for you to try them on in.

Me: That sounds wonderful. And expensive.

Monty: Money is no object.

Me: For you.

Monty: Tomorrow at this shop? For you too. Arrangements will be made.

I frown, staring at the phone. What could he be talking about?

Me: What sort of arrangements?

Monty: Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll send more details in the morning via text. You shall meet me there. And you will try on every single thing I bring you. No complaints. Understood?

Me: Yes Mother.

He sends me two rows of the middle finger emoji, making me laugh.

What is he talking about, arrangements have been made? I don’t understand.

But now I’m dying to know.

I arrive at the shop on the Rue Cambon at two o’clock on the dot. Three gorgeous, statuesque women dressed in severe black await me inside, all of them greeting, “Bon jour,” in the sweetest of voices.

“Bon jour,” I return, coming to a stop in the middle of the shop. It’s sleek and white, with very little clothing on display.

“Are you Mademoiselle Savage?” one of them asks me.

I nod, glancing around the store in search of Monty. “Is Mr. Michaels here yet?”

“Monsieur Michaels shall be here very soon. But we have plenty of dresses pulled aside just for you to start trying on. Would you like me to take you to your dressing room?”

“Please,” I tell her, following after her as she heads for the back of the shop.

The other women nod and smile as I pass by, and I can’t help but feel underdressed. I’m in jeans and a sweater, since I was in class all morning, and I didn’t have a chance to change into something a little more, I don’t know, proper?

But what’s proper to wear when shopping? I feel silly, having to get all gussied up just to shop, even if it is in a designer area.

In Paris, they take their shopping very, very seriously.

The woman pulls back a heavy, shimmery gray curtain to reveal a spacious dressing room with two chairs and a rack filled with dresses in a variety of shapes and colors. Long and short. Black, white and every color in between. I go to the dresses and thumb through them, my breath stalled in my throat as I take them all in.

Not a one of them has a price tag on them. I cannot afford this place.

Turning toward her, I ask, “Who picked these dresses out?”

She smiles politely, clasping her hands behind her back. “My staff and I did, mademoiselle. I hope they are of your taste.”

“They’re beautiful, merci.” I hesitate, not quite sure how I should word this. “Who…put this together?”

She frowns. “Your friend did. Monsieur Michaels.”

“No one else?” I don’t know why I’d think anyone else is involved. This is just…so strange.

Yes, I know Monty loves to shop. He’s taken me on a few excursions since arriving in Paris. But I don’t understand why he’s having me choose a gorgeous designer dress that probably costs thousands of euros for me to wear once? At an ultra-expensive restaurant to…what? Show me off?

I don’t get it.

“No one else,” she says, her expression brightening. “Would you care for some champagne?”

“That would be lovely,” I tell her with a faint smile.

I watch her go before I start to look through the dresses once more. They’re beautiful. Most of them aren’t much. Skimpy. Strapless. Deep Vs in the front. Backless. Short, showing off plenty of leg.

I think of the dress I wore for Whit before Thanksgiving, oh so long ago. When he fucked me in the back of the town car.

My skin warms at the memory.

“Darling.”

I glance up to find Monty peeking around the curtain, his hand over his eyes. “Are you decent?”

I laugh. “I’m stark naked.”

He drops his hand, disappointment written all over his face. “Damn it, you liar.”

My laughter grows. “You actually want to see me naked?”

“You’re a gorgeous little creature. Of course I want to see you naked. But I don’t want to fuck you, so you’re safe with me.” He’s already clutching a champagne flute between his fingers as he comes up beside me to thumb through the clothes on the rack. “I see they’ve pulled some quality pieces for you.”

“All of them are very beautiful. And very revealing,” I say.

He smirks. “The more skin, the better.”

“For who? I’ll freeze.” It may be springtime, but April in Paris is still very cold.

“You have the smoothest skin. Show it off,” he says, leaning in close. “There are so many rich men at Guy Savoy. You could probably find a new lover Friday night.”

“I don’t want a new lover,” I immediately protest.

“Why not? Aren’t you lonely? I can never hold out for too long. I always end up missing dick.” He pouts.

“I haven’t had dick in a long time,” I admit.

“How long?”

“Since Whit.”

Monty stops, his mouth dropping open in disbelief for a second or two before he swigs from his champagne flute, draining it. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m serious.”

“God, aren’t you starved for it? I would die. Absolutely fall apart,” he says gravely.

“I’ve been focusing on me,” I admit.

“Are your fingers tired from all the masturbating?” He raises his brows.

“I don’t masturbate all the time,” I murmur.

“Liar.” He laughs at my shocked face. “I’m just kidding. Hurry and try something on. Here, I’ll choose the first dress.”

It’s long and strapless and when I take off my clothes, Monty waves his fingers at me. “Get rid of the bra.”

“But—”

“It’s strapless. Besides, you won’t be wearing undergarments Friday night. Trust me,” he says knowingly.

I frown. “I won’t?”

“You want your clothes to lay nicely. Not show panty lines or bra lace. Ew.” He mock shivers.

He’s right. I know this. So I rid myself of my bra and slip the dress on, Monty immediately dismissing it. He dismisses all of the long gowns, and most of the short ones too. Until the only dresses remaining on the rack are extremely short and revealing.

I pluck one from where it’s hanging, contemplating it. It’s heavy, made of a lightweight silver and black mesh, and it’s so short, I’m sure my vagina will hang out of it. “This looks dangerous.”

“More like marvelous,” he drawls. “Put it on.”

I slip it over my head, and it falls into place perfectly. One side of the dress is silver, the other side black, the pieces crossing in the front across my right thigh, revealing it completely, almost to my hip bone. The neckline dips low, far past my breasts and nearly to my navel, and it’s held up by two thin straps. That’s it.

I feel completely exposed.

“Turn around,” Monty demands and I do so, glancing over my shoulder to stare at myself in the mirror.

My entire back is on display too, the mesh fabric dipping in the middle of my lower back, almost exposing my butt. The dress’s hem flirts at the top of my thighs. The mesh is sheer enough that I can see my black panties, and when I turn to face the mirror once more I can also see my nipples.

“I can’t wear this,” I say, my tone firm. “I look like a prostitute.”

Monty comes to stand behind me, his hands settling lightly on my bare shoulders. “You must wear it. And you don’t look like a prostitute. Trust me. You will fucking stun every single man who lays eyes on you.”

“I don’t want to stun them. I don’t even want them to see me.” I turn to the side, the material sliding against my body, making my skin prickle with awareness. The dress is sensuous. Revealing. Sexy beyond belief. I’ve never worn anything like it before in my life. “How much is this anyway?”

“Not exactly sure. I’d guess at least two thousand euros,” he says nonchalantly.

I practically choke on my own saliva. “What the fuck? Are you serious, Montgomery? It’s made of—nothing.” I run my hand over the mesh, my nipples hardening. I may as well be touching my bare skin, it’s so thin.

“It’s designer,” he corrects. “And I think it’s perfect. You are gorgeous.”

“If I were a paid escort,” I retort.

He laughs, sounding delighted. “Oh darling, in your dreams.”

“More like in some man’s wet dream.” I glare at him in the mirror, which only makes him laugh harder. I can’t help but start to laugh too.

“You need silver shoes,” he says, still chuckling. “Stilettos so you’ll be impossibly tall. Like an Amazon. Thin straps, barely there. They shouldn’t overwhelm. I don’t want people to see anything but this dress and your body.”

“Why?” I ask him, my voice, my gaze sincere. “Who exactly am I trying to impress?”

His barely contained smile is unnerving, filling me with wariness. “Only one of the most powerful men in the world.”