The last time I was in Paris, I was being fucked senseless by Hugo Rousseau. This time, however, I was in the French capital for business, not pleasure. It was Paris Fashion Week, after all, but if I should so happen to cross paths with Hugo, I wasn't stupid enough to turn down Round 2; that man had done things that were definitely worth trying again and again and again. 

I hadn't made plans to see Hugo. I was here for work. The fact that we work in the same industry was just coincidental but it meant that I'd inevitably bump into him, whether at a fashion show or at one of the countless after parties that were going on. It was simply a matter of time before I come face to face with him. 

In the meantime, I had some networking to do. Since my mother announced her intentions to retire in a few month's time, I was tasked with finding a replacement creative director for Doré. Being my mother's daughter, I had unprecedented access to some of the hottest shows in the city, rubbing shoulders with the greats that I've known since childhood. If they knew my real motives for attending their shows, I don't think many of them would be as welcoming as they have been. Still, when you're recruiting for a new Camille Clément, where better to do it than Paris, the city where the label first began almost forty years ago? 

Having done my research, I'd narrowed down my list of potential candidates to five, all of whom would fit in seamlessly with the direction the company would take once Mum retires to become a full time mémé to Léa and Seraphina. One or two are already creative directors for well-known labels while the rest were junior designers who had only been in the industry for a few years. I'm pretty sure my top pick only graduated from design school last summer. 

That said, I liked the freshness the younger ones brought to the game; their ideas were new and innovative and they could always be counted on to bring in a new range of clientele. Mum disagreed with me and insisted that we get tried and tested designers to take the helm. Her list, no doubt created with the help of my sister, Sophie Whitaker, comprised of a single name: Delphine Thibodeau, the daughter of an old friend and the person behind one very famous designer's work. She is, according to some, fashion's best-kept secret. 

The label she currently worked for was hosting a private preview show at their HQ in Paris and getting your hands on an invite was near impossible. Thankfully, Delphine knew I'd been sent here to scout for a new creative director and has pulled some string to ensure I got a backstage pass. Plus, it always looked good if someone from the Clément dynasty showed up; the French press adored Sophie, Charlotte and me and would constantly follow us around the city during Fashion Week, giving labels a huge amount of free publicity. It's bizarre being followed like you're royalty. Ten years on from my debut season here and I'm still getting used to it. 

Inside the show, I mingle with the crowd as a hired photographer takes photographs, ready to be uploaded onto some gossip website and passed around on social media. Standing next to a few socialites, I pose for a handful of photographs before ditching the front row and heading backstage. The hallways were a labyrinth but I finally found my way, recognising Delphine Thibodeau from the photo Mum showed me last week. 

"Delphine?" Coming to a stop in front of a woman in her mid-thirties that could easily pass for a model herself; she has hair so blonde it's almost white and eyes so blue that they're practically transparent. I instantly feel unaccomplished under her typically cool French stare. Forcing a smile, I introduce myself. "Emma Clément."

"Clément?" Delphine scoffed. Pulling one of the models out of the lineup, Delphine makes some adjustments before calling from a seamstress and dictating the changes she wanted to be made to an embellished jacket that already looked fabulous. Walking to the next model, she glances at me from over her shoulder. "I thought you were D'Souza now. It's typical of you and your sisters to only be a Clément what it suits you. Look, you're only here as a favour to my mother. I'll hear what you have to say but in all honesty, you'll be wasting your breath. Tisci went to Burberry so there's an opening at Givenchy and that's the job everyone covets."

I smile to hide my growing anger. "Well, you weren't exactly my top pick," I can't help but say. "I'm only here as a favour to my mother. André Orléans Ferrant is the one I want."

Delphine steeply arched her eyebrows but said nothing as she continued to scrutinise all the models. One or two were pulled from the lineup and sent back to hair or makeup while the jeweller was called upon a few times to switch out the jewels that adorned the models. I took a step back and watched as Delphine worked. She was clearly a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, what she liked, didn't like and she certainly wasn't afraid to make last minute, decisive decisions, either. One model was pulled from the show entirely because Delphine determined that the look- a stunning dress that looked beautiful on the model- didn't fit the overall aesthetic of the show. All it took was for Delphine to give a matter-of-fact 'non' and a wave of her hand and the model was gone. Out. 

Cutthroat. 

A moment later, an announcement was made for everyone to take their places as the show was about to start. Running back to the first model, Delphine surveyed the look one last time. The music began and with a nod and a tap on the model's shoulder, the show was underway. Each model was subjected to Delphine's critique before they took to the runway and returned to do the final lineup at the end of the show, making alterations to the way some of the clothes hung before they went back out. From nowhere, the man whose name appears on the label strolled in and took the arm of the star model, now in a pièce de résistance gown, ready to face his adoring crowd who were cheering and calling for him by name. He didn't bother to acknowledge Delphine when he and his smug grin walked out onto the runway. 

Like I said, cutthroat. 

"Only an idiot would hire André Orléans Ferrand," Delphine's exhausted voice told me. She leaned against the wall next to me and watched on the backstage screen as someone else took credit for all her hard work. "He's a sycophant, fawning over the wrong people just to get ahead. In reality, he's lazy, entitled and unimaginative. If you want to go bankrupt or become la risée of the fashion world, André Orléans Ferrand is absolutely the right choice for you."

"Good to know," I scoff. With the first of the models coming backstage, I shift slightly so that I take up as little space as possible. Stealing a sideways glance at Delphine, I enquire, "Who should I go with?"

Levelling me with a glowering look, she snarled. "I am not going to do your job for you. Finding a new creative director isn't a snap decision. You cannot simply choose a person based on what you think you know. Look at my boss for example." She gestured at the man in question who was giving a backstage interview, detailing where he had his inspiration for the collection from. It was all lies, of course. "He's won countless awards, been called innovative, celebrities love him as if he's a God and yet, he cannot draw, he cannot find inspiration, he cannot lead a team. Your mother's replacement should be as fearless as she is, else what's the point?"

Delphine became lost in the ever-thickening backstage crowd before I had a chance to question her further. Sighing at the missed opportunity, I grab my YSL tote and try to figure out where the exit for the building is. Retracing my steps back into the main gallery where the show had taken place, I find the show's audience huddling together, discussing how ingenious the collection was. Rolling my eyes, I turn to leave only to catch a glimpse of Hugo Rousseau from the corner of my eye. 

A gorgeous woman hung off his arm as a photographer snapped away. Hugo gave his best Blue Steel as he posed, shrugging off the woman when his blue eyes landed on me. He smirked as he dragged his hawkish gaze over my body, that charm of his making the butterflies in my stomach flutter girlishly. 

With suaveness only known to Hugo Rousseau, he slowly made his way toward me, wrapping an arm around my slender waist as he pulled me in for a swift hug and then kiss both my cheeks. His touch was far too brief for my liking but when I heard the unmistakable sound of a camera clicking, I understood why his embrace couldn't linger. We posed for a few staged photographs until the photographer's eye was caught by someone else and he rushed off in the opposite direction. 

"I was wondering when I'd get the pleasure of running into you," Hugo's smooth voice whispered in my ear. He was stood close to me now, his eyes boring into mine intensely as one of his hands brushed a ghostly caress against my forearm, sending shockwaves through my core. Lowering his voice so that only I could hear him, he murmured, "I was also wondering when I'd get the pleasure of making you cum again."

Fire radiated through me and I could barely contain the shameless blush that burned my cheeks. I contemplated turning him down because I'd already broken the main rule of my open marriage but ultimately, I decided that the only person I'd be punishing would be myself. I didn't want to be greedy; I hadn't had my fill of him yet so casting him aside would be depriving myself of something fun and free and fucking amazing. 

Deciding not to play coy, I fix a smile on my lips and suggest, "How about now?"

"Now?" Hugo gasped. He tried to cover up his shock with a small laugh but I knew exactly what he was thinking. Noticing that I wasn't joking, he dumbfoundedly nodded and proceeded to follow me out the door. Taking my hand in his, he guided me down the stairs and towards a rear exit of the building. "My place?"

Hurriedly, Hugo dragged me towards his chauffeur-driven car, opening the door as we bundled inside and made our way through the manic Parisian traffic. Worrying that my driver would be waiting for me all night, I send him a text, stating that I was hitching a ride with a friend. It was hardly a lie. The fifteen minutes it took to get to Hugo's flat was excruciating. We both knew what was about to happen but the wait was teasing, the air between us thickening with sexual tension, reminding us how illicit this was. 

Reaching down to my left hand, I slowly removed my engagement ring and wedding band, stowing them away in my handbag. Hugo studied me with piercing scrutiny, his magnetic stare beckoning me towards him. He licked his lips and dragged his middle finger along them, hiding his dangerous grin underneath. He knew exactly how to get my body to scream out for him. 

Entering his building, I followed him to the old, rickety lift, those cramped ones that were almost a pre-requisite for pre-war buildings like this one. Being in the confined space, the anticipation went into overdrive as I caught a whiff of Hugo's intoxicating aftershave, feeling his hot breath and hearing his ragged breathing. Then again, that may have been my ragged breathing. My senses were so heightened that I could practically taste him already. The second he lays his hands on me, God help us both. 

Reaching his floor, Hugo was careful not to press up against me as he freed us from the lift and walked us to his door, pushing it open and walking in ahead of me. I'd never been in his personal space before and it almost felt criminal to be in here. I wanted to take a look around, to get a feel for what Hugo's really like but firstly, I wanted to get a feel of him inside me. 

The second the door closed, I felt his presence behind me, an arm circling my waist and yanking me into his solid chest. He took my bag from my hand and threw it to the floor. Ordinarily, I'd be fuming at him for casting Yves Saint Laurent away like that but the second his hand connected with my hip and pushed me forward, I forgot all about it. 

Together, we moved to the sofa, coming to a stop near on the arms. With expert hands, Hugo found his way under my dress and hooked his fingers around the lace underwear I had on. In one swift motion, they were off, tossed aside to be forgotten about. 

"Bend forward and place your palms flat on the seat," he demanded. I inched closer tot he sofa and did as I was instructed to do, my body reacting with excitement as the blood pooled to my head and my core developing a heartbeat of its own. Hugo's hands slid down my legs as he manipulated me until both my knees were perched precariously on the sofa's arm and my face pressed into the fabric near my hands. He bunched my dress up to my hips and as I looked behind me, I saw Hugo stripping off as his nakedness showed off his erection. Catching my eye, he winked. Then he groaned as he slammed into me. I moaned out his name when one of his fingers found its way to my clit. "Ça te plaît? Plus vite? Plus fort?"

Now, my grasp of the French language may be limited but even I understood what he was asking. And my answer was 'yes' across the board.

Yes, I liked it.

Yes, faster.

Yes, harder. 

Yes. Yes. Yes.