Page 23 of Madam, May I

Desdemona removed the three dresses.

“And now that I am free again, you have left me alone,” he finished, before taking a very deep sip.

“Not just you,” she reminded him, coming over with the gowns held by hangers in her hands. “All of you.”

Over the rim of his flute, he eyed the elaborate garments she held before him before reaching inside his suit jacket to withdraw a thin billfold, from which he removed a black American Express card and set it on the table beside him. “I’ll buy all threeifyou model the middle one for me,” he said.

Desdemona matched his gaze with her own as she picked up the card and held it between two fingers as she eased her dress down over her body until it fell to her feet. Naked, she continued to look at him even as his eyes left hers to travel up and down the length of her frame. At ease, she withdrew her iPhone from her bag and attached the card reader, tapping her foot as she rung his purchase.

“Name your damn price, Mademoiselle,” he ordered, his eyes intense as they finally shifted up to lock with hers again.

“That will be eighty-one-hundred dollars with tax. For thedresses. Don’t worry, I’ll cover delivery,” she said, before swiping the card through the reader.

She reached for the dress of his choosing: a sheer black lace halter dress with a low back and the mystery of the nudity beneath it hidden by the folds of the A-line skirt that fell to the tops of her heels. With a twirl, the dress rose up high around her waist. “You like?” she asked, coming to a stop.

“To hell with this,” he said, quickly undoing the button and belt of his pants to free his erection where he sat.

“Antoine,” she chided, like a teacher scolding a misbehaving child, as she picked up her flute and took a sip.

He bit his bottom lip as he stroked the length of his penis with a tight grip.

She removed the dress and hung it back on its hanger before calmly placing all three dresses back inside the garment bag. He began to grunt in the back of his throat at his rising pleasure, and she closed her eyes as her clit swelled to life, wanting to be pleased as well. She bent to pick up her own dress.

“Shit,” he hissed from behind her, his urgency clear.

Desdemona released a breath, recognizing the pleasure in the depth of his hazel eyes as he stroked himself.

She desired a climax, but not him. She did not wanthim. He was just a man—a john—attached to a decent penis. She could achieve the same climax back at home with her two fingers or one of her toys.

She stepped over to him and pressed the side of his face against her flat belly. She felt his body tremble at her nearness as she looked down at him working himself so feverishly that his hips seemed to uncontrollably jerk forward. And when he roughly cried out as his cum shot from him like a cannon, some landing on her cheek and nipple, she stroked his head, comforting him. His moans and cries subsided as he became flaccid.

I owed him that nut.

She stepped away from him and stepped into her Lycra dress before dropping his card onto the table and picking up her tote. “Never contact me again, Antoine,” she said, using the back of her hand to swipe his ejaculation from her cheek.

He looked up at her, his breathing still ragged, before his eyes squinted in understanding.

That one moment between them had cost him access to her courtesans.

He nodded. “It was worth it,” he said.

With her clit throbbing and starved, jealous of his climax, she slid on her shades and scarf and turned to leave him on the plane. She didn’t bother to retrieve his burner phone and just blocked his number on her end.

* * *

I could be in Paris.

Not that she’d never been before. She had. She had just never gone on her own. Just to go or for vacation. It had always been for work. Sex. Servicing. She’d seen no more than the Charles de Gaulle Airport and various luxury hotel suites. Never the landmarks she’d heard about or seen in TV shows and films. The Eiffel Tower she’d glimpsed from a window, and that was no more effective than a postcard. The Louvre or the Champs-Élysées? The Latin Quarter and Versailles? Never.

Just fly in. Screw. Fly back out.

“You’re tensing up, Ms. Smith. Is everything okay?”

No.

Desdemona released a breath and forced her body to relax as she lay atop the padded massage table of the spa located in her building. “Everything’s fine,” she said, her face resting inside the padded headrest.

“Good,” the woman said.

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