Page 2 of Their Master

Before coming to Bernina’s, Moira had never shaved her body hair. But not only was it common among the whores who serviced Madame Cecile’s wealthy clientele, it was a requirement for anyone who wanted to work forMr. Smith.

Moira had known all aboutSmith’s preferences long before she’d met the man—long before she’d come to England, even.

She knew he was forty-five, although you’d never guess it to look at his body. To be honest, it irked Moira that she couldn’t stop looking at him—especially his tremendous cock. Before engaging her for the evening he’d had the audacity to warn her about the size of his prick.

“If you have experienced pain in the past, I would ask you to be honest and save us both any unpleasantness.” His heavy-lidded eyes had looked politely bored, as if he were discussing the weather.

Moira had struggled not to laugh in his face. She would have believed him arrogant if she hadn’t already heardcock talesabout him from several other whores.

“I’ve experienced pain in the past,” she’d admitted.

He’d nodded and begun to turn away.

“And I liked it.”

He’d stopped and then turned back to her, black velvet pupils swallowing chocolate brown irises.

“The deeper and harder, the better,” she’d added.

A tiny smile had curved his beautiful lips. “Why, how… delightful.”

Despite her intentions, she’d been impressed when he’d undressed and exposed his erect organ. She had wondered, at first, if it was the lack of pubic hair that made him appear so prodigious. But after enduring the exquisite blend of pain and pleasure that came from such deliciously deep penetration Moira knew it was no optical illusion.

It shamed her to admit that she wanted to use her mouth on him—just to see if she could take all of him. Actually, her desire didn’t just shame her, it disturbed her.

Maybe what Moira’s mother—not that Moira had ever been allowed to call Marie Bardotmother—had always said about Moira was true:You were born to be a whore, Moira, you could not do anything else.Marie’s cold blue eyes had flickered dismissively over Moira’s less than impressive person as she’d delivered her verdict.You might not have inherited the Bardot good looks, but my blood runs strong and true through your veins.

She’d smirked proudly when she’d said it, as if being the most recent generation in a long line of whores was something to crow about.

Not until this moment, when Moira’s mouth was salivating to suck a man’s cock—a man who also happened to be the sworn enemy of her family—had she believed Marie’s words were true. Indeed, she’d always suspected that her mother’s cynical observation was more a reflection of herowncarnal proclivities than Moira’s.

It appeared she’d been wrong.

How could her body want Smith while her mind hated him? What was wrong with her? Was she such a thoroughgoing whore that she welcomed any man to use her if he was attractive enough—even a man like Smith?

Apparently.

Moira tried to take comfort in the fact that she was not the only employee at Bernina’s to have fallen for Smith—or at least to have fallen for his magnificent physique and superlative skills in the bedchamber.

It was a universal truth that whores discussed their clients with each other, dissecting their bodies and abilities (or lack thereof) with the cool detachment of accountants reviewing ledgers. The consensus at Bernina’s was that Smith was one of the few clients the whores claimedtheywould pay for bed sport.

Moira had been skeptical, but now she knew it was true, and that knowledge infuriated her; Smith had given her more physical pleasure than any man she could remember. His body was like a tool—or a weapon—designed for fucking.

Well, that was fine, because Moira’s body was designed for revenge. By the time Smith discovered just what her purpose was, it would be far too late for him to do anything about it.

Smith’s eyelids lifted slowly, giving her time to school her features and gaze worshipfully at him, like a woman who’d just climaxed four times in the last hour.

His full lips flexed into a languorous smile. “Thank you.”

Moira had been servicing men for years and this was the first time she’d been thanked. How was she supposed to respond?

He chuckled and reached out to stroke her hip. Only her strict training kept her from flinching away from his gentle caress, which was not the sort of touch she generally received—or favored, for that matter.

“What?” he asked. “Has nobody thanked you for the use of your magnificent body before?” His thumb rubbed the thin, sensitive skin stretched over her pelvic bone.

Magnificent? Yet another first.

She shook her head. “No.”

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