The Lotus: Book Two, Cult of Beauty Series

By K M Dylan

A fashion model’s scandalous erotic odyssey continues in the sequel to Cult of Beauty: the Secret Life of a Supermodel, as Katie Wolfer battles with her step-sister and gets in deep with a charismatic, French billionaire on a secret project: The Lotus. Rife with drugs, wild sex and other questionable behaviors, Katie's story is a roller coaster ride that pulls back the curtain on a shocking world.

As one of the most beautiful women in the world, Katie is a magnet for people’s desire, and she herself has a deep wild streak that makes her a perfect match for French aristocrat and polo player, Victor de Goncourt. He wants her to help him run a very special project: The Lotus. Can business and pleasure mix?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K M Dylan
• Release date: Sep 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301064793

K M Dylan

K M Dylan is a former model turned author. Dylan's career in fashion fueled her sexual exploration that provided inspirational material for her erotic writings. Dylan does not write deep, meaningful, politically correct literature. She has lived a life of privilege because she had the luck of being born with a face that our society considers beautiful and a body that for years she was able to keep unhealthily thin. She has had sex with more than her share of lovers, many of them rich, powerful men and women, and her books are about that sexual journey. For more information about the author and her erotic novel, Cult of Beauty: The Secret Life of a Supermodel, visit www.kmdylan.com and also her tumblr blog kmdylan.tumblr.com where she posts thoughts and pictures that inspire her erotica (WARNING: NSFW Mature content for adults only).

Book preview

The Lotus

Book Two of the Cult of Beauty Series

A Novel

By K M Dylan

The Lotus: Book Two of the Cult of Beauty Series

Copyright © 2013 K M Dylan

Cover photo licensed by Shutterstock

Publisher: KDP, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used by reviewers in their reviews of the work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

Connect with K M Dylan at www.facebook.com/kmdylan and at www.kmdylan.com

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Dedicated to my co-conspirator, K.

***

Note to the reader: Welcome to part two of my scandalous story. This erotic memoir is the sequel to Cult of Beauty: The Secret Life of a Supermodel, which you should read prior to diving into this volume.

Praise for Cult of Beauty: The Secret Life of a Supermodel (Book one of the Cult of Beauty Series):

"I knew it was an erotic novel, but WOW! Let’s just say my husband was really happy when I finished reading this one… Seriously, I nearly lost it!" – Autumn After Dark Blog (Autumn Review)

"This novel is the future of erotica and K M Dylan nailed it by writing a story that is so compelling and seductive that I was not able to put it down until I was done reading it – twice!" – Five Star Review on Amazon.com by NY Fashionista

"Character, they say, is plot, and K M Dylan has created a fully evolved and complex cast of characters to weave a highly charged, deeply erotic love triangle." - Five Star Review on Amazon.com by Chloe Thurlow, author of The Secret Life of Girls

Chapter 1: Arnaud Picks Up the Pieces

Your beauty is a dangerous thing, Ryan said, as I lay curled into a ball on the floor of Daniel's office. I had lost the man I loved and his death was my fault. At dawn on a beach in Southampton, New York, my mother’s boyfriend Daniel had accepted a challenge by my sort-of-boyfriend Gavin to have a swim competition. The idea was that the winner would get to have me since I clearly could not choose between them. I found the idea to be stupid and primitive and left the beach to go back to the house as they plunged into the surf. Long Island has riptides at times, and they were strong that morning. The pea soup green ocean swallowed Daniel up in its inescapable savage currents and spat him out dead.

Daniel’s son, Ryan, stroked my hair, attempting to soothe me, while I shivered on the burnished wood floor, completely freaked out. It was a reversal of our usual roles. The death of his father didn’t seem to affect Ryan much. Not yet anyway, whereas I felt as if fate was again meting out my punishment with a heavy hand because I had been a bad girl. Fate had ripped my heart out and thrown it into a fiery furnace of fear and despair, again, reducing it to a blistered, blackened crisp. Tears streamed down my cheeks, pooling on the dark, gleaming wood that my face was resting on. Ryan was calmer than usual, his anxieties and inner demons somehow exorcised by this shocking loss.

Come on, Katie, you need to go to bed, Ryan murmured. He lifted himself off the floor and squatted down to pick me up. He was much more rested than I was since he had left the party early and gone to bed before it got out of hand. The rest of us had gone wild, bingeing on drugs, drinks and orgiastic sex.

And then Daniel drowned at dawn. Just like that.

Gavin had almost died too, carried out to sea by the same vicious riptide as Daniel. Gavin’s sister Natasha (my best friend and pretty much the world’s most famous and highly paid fashion model) and my stepsister Caroline had also been part of the insanity. Those two had disappeared up to Caroline’s bedroom upstairs after the swarm of Southampton police officers and rescue squads had come and gone that morning.

What had started as a carefree, fun, adventuresome night had suddenly turned into a nightmare.

Why, why, why?

What really enraged me about Gavin drunkenly challenging Daniel to a race was that they had acted as though what I felt and wanted had no bearing on the matter—as if they were allowed to make my choices for me. Were we not in the 21st century. Had we suddenly time shifted back a hundred years, or two hundred? After a long night of partying, Gavin had found me with Daniel sitting on the beach in front of his house. At this hour the beach was deserted and I had just sucked Daniel’s cock lying on the sand, and he and I were basking in a warm and sweet intimacy in the early light of dawn. This had infuriated Gavin and he mouthed off and the two men suddenly began their stupid male macho posturing. It was as if they’d fallen through a wormhole into the dark ages, because it wasn’t their normal selves. I felt as if we had stepped into an ancient Greek tragedy when they were carried out into the ocean, and we were all being punished for our hubris. Gavin barely survived the riptide, and had been airlifted to the local hospital to recover.

I could not make it up the stairs to my room. I had used up my last reserves talking to detectives and members of the Coast Guard who had arrived after I called nine-one-one. Ryan supported me with his arm around my waist as we climbed the white limestone stairs. When we got to my room, I kissed Ryan on the cheek and gratefully murmured, Thank you Ryan. You’re the best. I fell onto my bed and passed out.

* * *

A knock on my bedroom door woke me out of a deep sleep. I had been having a dream that I was in a dingy cellar of an old French chateau. There were racks of wine bottles, candelabra and a huge python coiled on the dusty stone floor. It had lifted its head, eyeing me with beady eyes, and was beginning to uncoil when I was startled out of my sleep. Not quite awake, I rasped, Come in. I sat up, a little disoriented about the time, and realized I was pretty much naked, wearing a thong and nothing else. My mouth was dry and my head was throbbing from all the events of the night before. Ryan must have taken off my robe and slid me under the covers—it wasn’t very appropriate. I pulled the sheet up over my breasts as a tall, refined man poked his head in the door.

May I come in? he asked softly, with a familiar French accent. It was Arnaud Delatour, Daniel’s business partner, friend and executor of his will. I had discovered he was the executor when I went into Daniel’s office last night, looking for clues about who to call after the police delivered the news that they had found his lifeless body out at sea. Arnaud had booked the first available flight from Paris. I glanced at the clock by my bed. It was six thirty p.m.

Oh, I’m sorry, Katie, I didn’t realize you were sleeping. I’ll come back later.

I waved for him to enter. No it’s okay, Arnaud, come in. I need to get up anyway. I’ve been sleeping all day.

He came into the room and sat on the edge of my bed. He put his arm protectively around my shoulders and kissed my cheek.

I’m so sorry about your loss, Katie. Are you okay? How are you feeling?

I shrugged, as tears spilled down my cheeks. I hiccupped, trying to contain my sobs. I felt like a little girl again, lost. How would I express my feelings? I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I loved Daniel and I hadn’t felt this devastated since the death of my father ten years earlier. This was even worse than losing my mother, with whom I had had a very complicated and mostly estranged relationship.

I lowered the sheet since Arnaud had seen (and caressed) my bare breasts on his last visit. It seemed silly that I should suddenly be prudish about showing myself to him. I wrapped my arms around his powerful, muscular torso and buried my head into his chest. He was a handsome, fit man in his early 50s, with warm eyes, a sensuous mouth, his brown hair combed back with gray streaking his temples. He also had one of the best tans that I’d ever seen; his golden complexion reflected his love for the outdoors.

I don’t know how to deal with this. First my mother, and now this… I let out a long sigh. Thank you for coming so quickly, I whispered gratefully. He stroked the bare skin of my upper back and shoulders lightly with his fingertips. Despite my distress, I felt a current of electricity hum through my body, causing an involuntary shiver of arousal.

You will need time, Katie. Mourning takes time, and there’s nothing to be done except to cry and miss them and let the emotional healing take place.

I nodded and whispered, Okay. He continued, I know this is extremely difficult for you.. I’m so sorry, Katie. I’m here to help in any way I can.

The gentle, protective tone of his voice opened the floodgates again, and I put my head against his chest, my body shaking as I let out a few more sobs, my tears soaking into his navy polo shirt. He sat patiently, his arms soothingly wrapped around me. The last time he had been in this room, just a few weeks earlier, he had taken me from behind as I leaned over the bed. The memory of that pleasurable moment, and the savage, feverish lust we had experienced for each other, distracted me from my pain, causing me to stop weeping and smile a little.

What are you thinking about? Arnaud asked.

The last time you were here, what we did in this room… Or rather, what you did to me. I gave him a little mischievous smile, blinking the tears away. He gently wiped the moisture off my cheeks, gave me a conspiratorial smile as he ran his other hand over the bed indicating where we had consummated our tryst. That afternoon was extraordinary and I will never forget it. Are you hungry? How about I warm something up for you to eat. You can get yourself dressed—or not—and join me downstairs?

I nodded and replied , That’s very sweet, Arnaud. Thank you. He kissed me on the forehead and left me sitting on my bed. As I watched his trim, muscular frame walk away from me, I flushed again, thinking of him taking me from behind, his hips slapping into my proffered bottom, filling me up with his hard manhood and driving me into orgasmic ecstasy as I lay face down on the bed. He had been a fierce, forceful lover and an important chapter in my recent sexual flowering. Arnaud’s presence was making me feel better. He had distracted me from the trifecta of guilt, the aching despair and anger that had taken hold of me.

* * *

I stood in my walk-in closet for a few minutes, surrounded by racks of clothes, feeling utterly lost. I fingered a Missoni skirt, my eyes attracted to the pattern of vivid colors. What was I doing there? I lay down on the carpeted floor of the closet and did some yoga breathing exercises for a few minutes while staring at one of the recessed LED lights in the otherwise dark ceiling. It had been designed to suggest a night sky. My closet was a cocoon. The knot of sadness that had been lodged in my throat receded as I lay there breathing. Then I remembered that I had gone in to the closet to get dressed and join Arnaud for a bite. I got myself off the floor and began flicking through a rack, deciding on a black Phillip Lim t-shirt and my Alexander Wang black leather mini skirt. I was a little overdressed for just hanging around the house, but I wanted to wear black to show that I was in mourning. That’s what one does.

* * *

Arnaud and Ryan were sitting at the rough-hewn farmer’s table in the center of the kitchen, both engrossed in electronics. Ryan, who was pretty awkward socially, liked to hide behind a video game when he was in public spaces to avoid interacting with anyone.

Arnaud had prepared a plate of rigatoni with a meaty Bolognese sauce for me that was sitting on the table next to a glass of red wine. I glanced at the men, whispered, Thank you, and sat down to eat. I hadn’t eaten since the night before and I was famished. This was the perfect comfort food. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten pasta.

So what do we do now? I asked Arnaud. He closed his laptop, turned towards me and took a sip of red wine. We will meet with Daniel’s lawyer, Mr. Stuhlberger, tomorrow, and we will open Daniel’s will. Stuhlberger emailed me not long ago saying that he had met with Daniel and made some changes, and I’m not entirely sure what those changes are.

All of us? I asked. I had no idea how things worked when someone dies. There should be a mourner’s app that tells you: Here’s what you do next (you know, like call the priest to arrange the service, contact the executor, have a good cry with a friend…). It should also tell you, here’s what you should wear, here is what you answer when people say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Arnaud nodded.

Ryan, who sat on the other side of me, asked , What’s going to happen to me, Arnaud?

Arnaud looked over at Ryan and said, Your father told me he would leave provisions for you. When he asked me to be his executor and trustee of his estate, he said his goal was to make sure that his children were well taken care of.

It’s going to be weird for me, Ryan said. I’ve never been on my own. Dad’s always controlled my life; made sure I didn’t get into trouble.

You will have someone who takes care of you.

Who? Ryan insisted.

We’ll see tomorrow. I would imagine he wanted me to make arrangements for you and that he had something in mind.

But you’re too busy to take care of me, Arnaud, Ryan said, a little concerned. I know what your life is like. Half the time you’re in Asia making deals with car factories and computer chip makers. Although Ryan was clinically depressed and had been in and out of treatment with psychiatrists since he was a teenager, I was surprised at how much he paid attention when you would swear he was completely checked out.

I was a little worried myself, actually. What will happen to this house? I asked. Will it be sold? Do I need to find a new place to live?

The house we were in was Daniel’s beachfront mansion. It was a beautiful compound surrounded by dunes and a pristine beach, and I imagined it would fetch in the double-digit millions if it were put for sale. There weren’t many like it in the Hamptons and it was some of the most expensive beach real estate in the world.

Arnaud shrugged. It might be sold, he said, or if his children want to keep it and share it, then it can stay in the family.

The question bubbled up in my consciousness, where do I fit in to this? I wasn’t one of his children, I came close to be Daniel’s stepdaughter—he and my mom had discussed getting married. One of my model friends who’s stepfather had died had told me once that step children were never treated the same in people’s wills as their real kids. That same friend had received a pittance compared to her stepsiblings. Well, if worst came to worst, I could keep modeling. I had been planning to retire, since at 22 I was considered old in the industry, but I had enough of a name that I could still keep working. The fashion world had become more accepting of older models, so long as they had that special something (like Kate, Christy, Angela, and a few others).

Has anyone seen Caroline? I asked, changing the subject. I would not be surprised if she slept for another two days, actually. She drank and did more blow than anyone else. Her hangover would be atrocious. Arnaud nodded, responding, I stuck my head in her room and she and her friend were still sleeping. That was around five. I looked at the antique naval clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It was now six

I’ll go check on them again, I said.

I quickly wolfed down the rest of my rigatoni and another gulp of the red wine, then headed back upstairs to Caroline’s room. I found her and Natasha pretty much in the same way Arnaud must have… neither one with a stitch of clothes on, sprawled across Caroline’s bed, showing no signs of life. They looked beautiful and wild, their long hair tossed across the pillows, their bodies on full display. I went and sat on the edge of the bed and ran my fingers along the curve of Caroline’s tanned flank, over the small undulations created by her rib cage. Then I ran my fingers over her hipbone and the almost invisible blonde fuzz on her thigh. She didn’t stir. I was less gentle in rousing my friend Natasha, placing my hand on her exquisite, perfectly molded butt and shaking it quite vigorously. I was in awe of her unearthly perfection. She and Caroline had hooked up the night before, confirming to me that my stepsister swung both ways. I already