Page 22 of Madam, May I

Desdemona eyed him over the rim of her glass, noticing his erection pressed against the seam of his tailored pants. She cleared her throat. “Things have changed since we last spoke, Antoine,” she said.

“I know.”

She looked pensive, curious about the discussions being had about her. A lot of the consorts were friendly with each other, particularly since new consorts were by referral only.

“There are more than a few men unhappy with your decision,” Antoine admitted, clasping his hands as if forcing himself not to reach across the short divide to touch her.

Desdemona took another sip.

“Knowing that you haven’t been with any of them anymore makes me want you even more, Mademoiselle,” he admitted. “Nommez votre prix.”

“There is no price. Not anymore,” she said. “I can set you up with one of my consorts, perhaps someone more to your taste.”

Their eyes met.

His ex was foreign, tall, slender, and naturally blond. Everything Desdemona was not.

“In fact, I have a set of twins that would be perfect. Lyla and Lola would be twice the fun for you,” she said.

He did reach to press a warm hand to her knee. “It would take both of them and more to match you,” he said with such determination. The Johansen twins were concierge level courtesans ready to fly around the country at a whim to service her elite consorts. The blond, blue-eyed twin beauties of Swedish background were aspiring actors, frequently out of work, but loved acting and improving their craft. They had just arrived back from an excursion to Vegas with a high-roller gambler, but Paris would give them renewed energy.

“True,” Desdemona admitted, allowing his hand to remain. “But I have taught all my courtesans very well. I’ve even shown them videos of me doing what I do, how I do it, and why you all used to pay me very well.”

“Nommez votre prix.”

“No.”

Antoine sat back in his chair in frustration, wiping his hand across his mouth.

“Trust me, the twins are what you need,” she said, reaching into her bag for her phone. He was a man used to having his way. What her consorts failed to acknowledge was that they all were.

“Fly with me to Paris,” he said. “I can just lie inside you all weekend and all will be right with the world.”

Paris.

She was tempted. It would be so easy to say yes and get away from the normalcy of her routine. Something different. Spontaneous.

“I am the center of protection for my consorts and courtesans,” she explained. “I need to be here in case something happens. That’s my job.”

“Nommez votre prix,” he repeated. “Anything.”

She set her flute inside the cupholder and rose, coming over to stand beside where he sat. She reached for his chin and tilted his head back. “The next man I lie with will be because I choose to, not because he pays me,” she said to him softly, stroking his chin with her thumb.

Calmly he reached around her body and pressed his face against her belly. “Then choose to,” he requested.

The fleshy bud of her core throbbed to life as she looked down the length of the aircraft and her eyes landed on the king-size bed just beyond the open door. It would be so easy to lead him there and ride them both to a climax. So damn easy.

She shook her head, denying them both. “We have done business in the past, and to offer my body to you for free now would be bad business. Right?” she asked. “Right.”

He said nothing.

Desdemona moved out of his grasp. “I brought three dresses for you to choose from,” she said, walking over to the first seat, where she had laid the garment bags, to pick them up.

“I don’t needdresses,” he said.

She eyed him as she unzipped the bag, “I didn’tneedto come here today,” she volleyed back. “I could have just as well denied you over the phone as I did on this plane, Antoine.”

“I’ve never married, but I didn’t want to cheat,” he said as he reached for his flute. “So I left you alone.”

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