I knew one thing for sure. Celeste's art auction tonight was the last major event I was handling before disappearing to Paris for three months.
And fuck, just thinking about Paris made my blood pump with anticipation—the kind that starts in your chest and ends up somewhere lower, throbbing near between your legs like a promise you know you're going to keep.
The possibilities. The thighs—sorry, things—I was going to do there. Things I could accomplish.
Paris was going to be three months of breaking modeling records, dominating the fashion industry, and absolutely destroying European marriages like a one-man cultural exchange program focused exclusively on exporting American audacity.
