The Billionaire's Desire

I exploded. "What does that even mean?"

She turned back to her desk, her hands flitting about nervously, just repeating the words under her breath. "Cold and impersonal. No humanity. No artistry...."

I had clenched my fists and turned on my heels, storming out of the classroom before the class was even over. I had barely slept all night, and was up before the sun. I got dressed in my favorite handmade pieces...

And I had headed right to Kingsley Designs.

Somehow in the past couple of days, this had become my happy place. Hard work was not subjective here. I knew Mr. Kingsley was impressed with me, and I was learning so much about the business of fashion that I could almost forget that flighty professors held my future captive in their fluttering hands.

“Nakia!

I snapped out of my reverie and hurried over to Mr. Kingsley's desk. He motioned for me to look at his screen, forcing me to bend over his shoulder, where I was treated to the heady scent of him. I tried not to inhale too deeply as he stabbed the screen with his finger.

"Do you understand this program?" he groused.

I looked at the CAD design software he had. It was stuck on an ominous looking warning screen. "I've never used it, no, but it looks similar to the one we use at school."

"Why the fuck does it keep freezing then? Can you tell me that? I was just working on it when suddenly this box pops up in my face," he stabbed his finger into the screen again, making a ripple in the plasma screen,

"May I?" I asked.

He gestured impatiently. "Be my guest," he said pushing himself away from the screen with an exasperated sigh.

I bent over the keyboard, conscious of the fact that my ass was pointed directly at him. For a moment I hesitated to put myself so clearly on display.

But instead I wrenched my focus back to the computer. In seconds, I realized what he had done wrong in locking himself out of the program. With a few taps of the keys, I restored the main design screen.

I could barely suppress my gasp. "Is this one of your new collections, sir?" I exhaled.

Right away I could see that it was flawless, the lines so perfect, the cut so exquisite, that I knew it would be all the magazines would be able to talk about once he sent it down the runway. Instantly I felt like an amateur. My design instincts were good. Zachary Kingsley's were unparalleled.

Zack rolled his chair forward. "Just something I've been working on," he said. There was something different about his voice. Something softer.

I let my eye wander all over this sketch, trying to figure out how he did it. The artistry was evident in every line. I looked closer, breaking apart the pattern pieces in my mind, trying to come up with how it would be cut to achieve the drape he'd created. Then I noticed something a little off..."Oh but I think you've got a little something," I poked my finger at the small imperfection. "Right here there is a little asymmetry you might have missed."

I went cold the minute I said the words. How stupid could I be? He wouldn't appreciate having his mistake pointed out by a mere intern.

But instead of getting angry, Mr. Kingsley just smiled and nodded his head. "That's my old dirty string."

I turned and looked at him, furrowing my brow. "Dirty string, sir?" I asked.

He leaned back in his chair. I don't think I had ever seen his face so relaxed. "I find perfection boring," Mr. Kingsley said. "It's cold, impersonal. I want my designs to look like they were made by the human hand. To have that warmth that comes with craft."

I could feel the breath leaving my body. Of course. It all made sense. "But why is it a dirty string?"

He peered at me. "Have you ever heard the stories about how Amish quilters work?"

"Um, I think so," I said. I really hadn't, but I wanted him to keep talking. The expression on his face was breathtaking.

He leaned forward, his eyes shining. "The Amish belief that only God can create perfection. So in every one of their quilts, they deliberately make a mistake, put something out of place. My father told me that story when I was a little boy. He was teaching me how to weave on this huge old loom that we had up in our attic." He smiled at the memory, his voice far off in dreamy. I could almost picture the scene, the light filtering in through a dusty window as old Mr. Kingsley guided his son's hands while he spoke. "He told me that when you run a very vibrant color in your weft, you should always follow that with an "old dirty string." Something rough, a little coarse. Maybe the color is off, or maybe it's even ugly. That piece of dirty string helps make the perfect, vibrant color even more perfect."

The hard lines around Mr. Kingsley's eyes had softened, his warm mouth was curled into a dreamy smile as he lost himself in his memories. And or the first time I had met him, I saw that his hands were still.

"Thank you, sir," I said trying to convey just how much he had helped me in only a few words.

He seemed to come out of his reverie and when he looked up at me, there was a new expression on his face. One of wonder. "Why are you thanking me?" he asked cautiously.

I couldn't look him in the eye when he was looking at me that way. I focused on the screen, on that gorgeously cut, saffron gown. "I think," I hedged. "I mean, I think you just taught me more about design then anything I ever learned in my Design Techniques class."

Zach

¤ ¤ ¤

I will admit that I had ulterior motive in calling her over to my desk. Having her bend over my computer screen gave me a chance to study the way her neck swooped into her soft shoulders. When I pushed away from my screen and she bent forward to repair the damage I had done, I treated myself to a long, lascivious look at that juicy rear end of hers.

Then she knocked me flat on my ass with only her words.

"I always wondered what it was that was missing in my work," she said dreamily, staring at my sketch like it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. "I was just told that it was too cold, too perfect. I worked too damn hard on it not want it to be perfect, but now I understand why my professor said I lacked artistry."

I shook my head. "Your professor is full of shit," I grumbled, gesturing towards the outfit she was wearing today. "You're a fucking artist, Kia."

I had never called her by a nickname before. It felt...good.

She looked down to where I had gestured, the cutest little blush spreading across her caramel cheeks. "Oh this? This is something I made for me, not my classes…"

I sat forward suddenly, startling her. But she needed to understand. "You made it for yourself. And that's why it's so damn good." I beckoned her towards me. "Come here."

I didn't mean to order her around but she needed to understand this. She moved towards me her breath coming in short little gasps. My own breath was coming in ragged gasps as well as I slid my hand down the three-quarter length sleeve of the well-tailored jacket that covered her arms. "Take this off," I ordered.

She nodded mutely, her warm brown eyes fixed on mine as she shrugged out of her blazer. I took the jacket into my hands, and quickly turned it inside out.

"You put a dart in at the elbows," I exhaled. "That's a vintage technique."

I looked back up at her. She was in front of me in only her camisole and skirt, but for some reason that was more erotic than if she were standing in front of me completely naked. I swallowed thickly as my eyes traced this smooth, curving lines of her body. Those generous breasts strained against the thin fabric of the camisole, and I could see the delicate lace of her bra just out of my reach. I swallowed again and handed the jacket back, shifting in my seat to hide my raging hard on.

She shrugged herself quickly into her jacket, covering up that skin again. I felt like ordering her to take it off once more. I had a feeling she would if I told her to.

But instead she dashed back to her desk and opened the file in front of her with such finality that I knew whatever spell there had been was now broken.

I turned back to my CAD file and opened it to a new screen. I began sketching without even thinking, jus

t drawing the lines that came to my mind so I could stop thinking about the way her lacy bra had tormented me for that brief second.