Page 7 of Their Courtesan
“I… see.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
Monica turned her head, eyes glazing over and cheeks slightly puffing.She’s reacting better than most.Miguel was also impressed she could gauge his size even though he was a master at tucking at this point in his life. As strange as it was to think, he considered himself in good hands at this point.
Eventually, the madam looked at him again. “Mr. Bolivar, I know just the woman for you. I do not believe that any part of your body should be an issue for her.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind signing some paperwork…”
Before Miguel could have his fill that night, he had to sign all the necessary documents stating that he wasn’t a danger, either through violence or disease, that he would not discuss the workings of the business or any conversations he overheard, and that he would honor the payment of any and all charges accrued over the course of his stay. Only then was he permitted to enjoy the services of a girl that evening.
Monica excused herself to ready the woman of her choosing. Miguel elected to stay in that room, declining the entertainment of another available girl. As nice as it would be to get a lap dance or strip tease from someone he wouldn’t even sleep with, it wasn’t necessary. Miguel didn’t doubt that he would enjoy the presence of the woman Monica declared perfect. (He would see about that.)
He had finished his second glass of brandy by the time Monica returned. “She is waiting for you in her chambers, Mr. Bolivar. Allow me to escort you.”
There was probably some cosmic joke about following a pregnant madam to his fate for the night, but Miguel didn’t say a thing as he followed Monica out of the room and up the grand staircase. They strolled down a large hallway, laden with lush carpeting, elegant paintings depicting Ancient Grecian and Roman revelry, and enough cameras squirreled away along the crown molding for a man to almost feel uncomfortable. Although that was quickly offset by a pair of loud moans emanating from another room. Good to know this was the kind of place where people could hear you enjoying the fruits of your evening.
Monica stopped in front of a room and knocked. “You should be fine to go in, Mr. Bolivar.” She stepped away. “Enjoy your evening. Please do not hesitate to let me know if you can be better accommodated.”
She probably said that to every guest, but Miguel had to laugh to himself.
As soon as he entered the room, however, he stopped laughing. There was no time to think about the outside world. Only the night of fun he intended to have.
***
The room was large, but barely lit. What lamps were on were covered in sheaths of pink and red satin, creating the kind of intimate glow that Miguel was used to seeing in these places… and yet it somehow worked. Nothing was covered in flowers, fleur de lis, hearts, or other such nonsense. Just raw, passionate colors.
The same gauze shielded a four-poster bed at the far end of the room. Within, displayed upon a sea of silk, was Miguel’s friend of the evening. Not that he could see her well. He was quickly distracted by the intense scent of musk burning from a stick of incense anyway.Not a bad choice, if there has to be a scent.There was almost always a scent, but they tended to be, well, feminine. Musk was a bold choice that instantly reminded Miguel that he was a man, damnit, and he came here with one goal.
The woman behind the curtain, so to speak. Getting inside of her was his goal.
“Evening,” came a deep, yet flirtatious voice. Long and slender legs moved through the sea of bed silk. “You must be this Mr. Bolivar I’ve heard so much about.”
Miguel stepped forward. Was she going to get off the bed? Or were they going to get right to it?I’m fine with either one.He didn’t mind a little build up, but no fuss, no muss intercourse wasn’t bad either. Then again, he had come to the Château. He expected personal concubine levels of sexual entertainment.
As if she read his mind, the woman sat up, pushing aside one part of her sheer curtain. Hair as long as her legs draped upon her shoulders. Blond hair, by the looks of it. Real? Fake? Who knew? Miguel had a hard time caring anymore.
Shit, that wasn’t the only thing getting hard. Once it realized it was probably going to have sex with this woman, let alone shortly, his cock stirred to life like the beast it was.
“Please, call me Miguel.”
“Oh… that’s a nice accent, Miguel.”
Accent? Shit. Miguel had spent half his life trying to get rid of his many accents. Plight of growing up in a multicultural community. Or as multicultural life as the son of a casino billionaire could get.When in Monaco…“You like accents, do you?” Which one to embrace? The Spanish one? The French one? If he concentrated hard enough, he could do a mean Italian accent. Of course, he didn’t plan on doing much concentrating later, so he should stick to something that was natural yet arousing for this woman. He may be fucking her tonight, but was it a bad thing if she was thrilled about it as well? That was half the fun. The other half being, well,sex.
“What girl doesn’t like a nice accent?” She sat up on her knees as Miguel rounded the corner of the bed and gazed upon her without that gauze in the way. His hand gripped the maple sprouting from the end of the bed. “Let me guess… European, absolutely.”
“An easy guess.” Miguel let his hand fall, body following it as his shoulder slumped against the post. His hands went into his trouser pockets. “Where in Europe, I wonder?”
She pulled her hair back over her shoulder, accentuating the cleavage bulging from her simple black dress.Now those are definitely real.Not bad to look at, definitely. Neither was her face. Heart-shaped. Jaw as finely pointed as those French tipped nails sprouting from her nimble fingers. Her makeup was light, as if she hadn’t been expecting him. Still, Miguel was quite taken with her. Jury was still out on if she was in the top tier of beauties he had been with in his life, but he had nothing to complain about. Seeing her naked would be better, though.
“France.” The woman grinned. “Am I close?”
“Yes, you are close.” Miguel couldn’t help but smile back. “I would’ve been shocked if you could pinpoint a Monegasque accent.”
“Monegasque?”
