Page 1 of The Champion
PROLOGUE
My Type
France, August 2461
Victor
The woman in front of me giggled as she fumbled to open her front door. “Don’t judge the mess. I didn’t expect to bring home someone famous.”
It should be obvious that I wasn’t here for a tour of her tiny apartment. Without an answer, I followed her inside.
The light from a single lamp in the corner showed that her apartment was fairly tidy and constructed in the same layout as every other apartment in the Paris district.
“Are you thirsty? Should I get you something to drink?” She purred and let her long colorful nails run down my chest while licking her lower lip seductively.
“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered.
Like an eager cat getting a bowl of milk, she licked my neck and collarbone while I let my gaze run over her walls. At least she wasn’t one of those women with photos of me plastered all over her apartment. My gaze stopped and zoomed in on a picture on her fridge. Okay, so she had a single one from the time I won my tenth championship.
“My friends are going to be so jealous,” she breathed and giggled a little when I pushed back her hair and leaned in. The salty taste of her skin was to be expected after a night of dancing.
“What do you want to do? I heard you like oral.”
Before I could say anything, she fell to her knees and opened my pants.
“Louise, why don’t we…”
“It’s Lella, silly.” She giggled again, the alcohol from the nightclub probably still giving her a lovely buzz.
We were by the door, about five steps from the bed, and I already knew I would never touch those sheets. Out of all the eager women at the nightclub I’d chosen Lella to prove a point to the people gossiping that I had developed a type. I hadn’t!
Since I was fifteen, I had enjoyed women of all shapes, colors, and forms. As a curious scientist I appreciated diversity. Sticking to one type would be a shame when I was fortunate enough to live in a sexually liberal country where my fame gave me free pick of any woman I wanted.
Pulling her curly blond hair back, Lella fished out my cock. I was mortified to see it show no excitement. Limp in her hand, I watched my cock reject every kiss and lick from her.
“Take off your top,” I instructed.
Lella took it one step further. Getting up from her kneeling position, she put on some sexy music and stripped for me.
I stayed by the door and stroked my cock while watching the gorgeous woman in front of me move her body in a sensual rhythm. Pressing her breasts together and playing with her nipples, she winked at me.
My cock was responding a little, but still it was pitiful to see his lackluster interest in her show.
Have I been with too many women?
The thought that my sex life had peaked horrified me. I was twenty-five years old and physically and mentally fit. This couldn’t be happening.
Lella was dancing toward me, her slim fingers peeling off my shirt.
It felt like cheating on a test when I turned her around. With another giggle, she wriggled her butt against my crotch. It wasn’t until I imagined her being someone else that my cock sprung to life.
Raising himself up and paying attention, my dick was eager as I slid him between her cheeks.
“Mmm.” She purred again and circled her hips when I pushed inside her.
My eyes closed as my mind took me thousands of miles away. When she talked dirty to me, I zoned it out because the woman I was fucking in my mind didn’t speak French.
Hearing Lella’s moans and purrs from the pleasure that my mechanical movements brought her didn’t make me stop to feel guilty.
