Page 6 of Betting Her Curves

3

Patrick

What the fuck did I see yesterday? What the hell was that about?

Then again, the blonde goddess’s private session in the high rollers room certainly piqued my interest. Fuck, my cock was as stiff as iron the entire time, watching her fuck her snatch with a laser pointer before stuffing her holes full of diamonds. I was aware that prisoners use their bodily passages as stowaway compartments for contraband, but I had no idea that beautiful young women with voluptuous curves did the same.

Still, I quickly intuited why the blonde was there. She tiptoed into the room, as silent as a mouse, before casing the joint. I know a competitive poker player when I see one, and the woman definitely fit the bill. No, she wasn’t a hardened old man with black sunglasses and graying stubble. Instead, she was a voluptuous young filly with dainty features and an innocentsmile, but those are the ones that always get you. You think they’re going left, but they’re going right. You think you’ve locked down their tells, but then a rabbit’s pulled out of a hat, and you’re left with your dick on the chopping block. It’s clear she has a game coming up at the Degas. The question is:how will I get in on that hand?

The problem was almost too easily solved, and yes, you guessed it. I made a call to Corinne at the designer boutique and the saleslady almost fell over herself to be accommodating.

“Oh yes, the Degas hosts invitation-only tables once a month,” she purred. “Minimum buy-in is a hundred thousand. Are you looking for a seat, Mr. O’Lachlan?”

“I am,” I confirmed. “Set it up. As soon as possible.”

Corinne practically meowed with anticipation.

“Of course, Mr. O’Lachlan. And can I say how lovely your sister was the other day? Miss O’Lachlan walked out with five of our latest handbags, and I know she can’t wait to show them off to her friends.”

I silently cursed Ainsley because who the fuck spends so much on purses when there are people dying of hunger on the streets? But I gritted my teeth because this was not the time.

“I’m sure my sister loves her purchases. My secretary will be in touch, and thank you again, Corinne,” I spoke in a courteous tone. “I appreciate your help.” I was just about to hang up when the saleslady hurriedly spoke once more. “Mr. O’Lachlan,” she rushed. “Can I offer some advice?”

No, you greedy bitch,you can’t, the voice in my head growled. But I grimaced and nodded.

“Yes, of course.”

The middle-aged woman practically shimmied with delight. I could sense it, even if I couldn’t see it over the phone.

“Some of the men bring dates to these events and let’s just say ... I, ah, would be more than happy to be your date. In fact, I would love it,” she simpered. “Working at this boutique gives me access to the latest designer fashions and jewelry, so have no fear, Mr. O’Lachlan. I won’t embarrass you. In fact, I’d say with some certainty that you’ll be proud to have me on your arm.”

Internally, I cringed. Was this woman shitting me? With her stiff blonde helmet of hair, and the garish red lipstick? With her brittle nails disguised under gels, and clawed, veiny hands? But it wasn’t even the middle-aged woman’s looks per se. It was her grasping, rapacious ways, and her sheer desperation to find a rich man to provide her with a rich life. My stomach literally heaved with disgust.

Besides, I have plans up the sleeve for my event at the Degas, and they included a particularly beautiful young woman who has no idea I exist.

“No thanks,” I said in a cool tone. “But I’ll make sure you’re compensated handsomely for your trouble. Thank you again.”

With that, I hung up before Corinne could speak again, relieved to be off the phone. What the hell? Some women have no idea that appearing greedy and money-hungry only drives rich men away, and not towards them.

But now, I’m at the Degas for my rendezvous with the beautiful mystery blonde. It’s a balmy Saturday night, and when I step out of my black car, a warm evening breeze hits my features.

“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the valet nods. “Bienvenue a L’Hotel Degas.”

“Bonjour,” I reply in a curt tone.

Then I stride into the hotel with a confident step. Heads turn immediately because I cut a sharp figure. A dark suit emphasizes my broad shoulders, paired with a blindingly white shirt emphasizing my deep tan. Years-long dedication to a combination of Hard 75, Crossfit, and Hyrox have ensured that my torso narrows into a vee and that my legs are thick, muscular, and athletic. Of course, there’s also the fact that I’m six four and tower over your average male. Ladies appreciate my physique and as I step into the lobby, quite a few are eyeing my masculine form hungrily while literally licking their glossy lips.

But there’s no time for hellos because as soon as I enter the Degas, a concierge steps forward.

“Mr. O’Lachlan,” she greets formally, inclining her head. “Please, come with me. Your table awaits.”

Then, with swift, sure strides, we enter an elevator to the far left of the lobby. It’s incredibly discreet, and almost impossible to see because the ornate wallpaper of the Degas continues unmarred, covering the lift itself. But when the doors slide open, it’s clear that an elevator is hidden in the wall, existing among the profusion of lilies and roses on the hand-painted wallpaper.

“After you, sir,” the concierge gestures politely while inclining her head again. For a moment, I wonder if she gets a headache because her bun is so tight that it pulls painfully at her temples. But then I shrug and step into the gilded cage. It’s not my place to critique the grooming of Degas employees, and in fact, I have half a mind to reveal to Christian Degas what happened in hishigh rollers room at some point.AfterI meet my lovely lady, of course.

The elevator carries us upwards before the doors slide open silently, and we step into a lush corridor.

“This way, Mr. O’Lachlan,” the concierge gestures before striding down the hall towards a set of enormous white doors. Then, the doors open on their own, as if they knew I was coming. Of course they did. My experienced gaze spots a tiny camera mounted in the corner of the hallway, pointing straight at my face.

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