The Courtesan's Bed (10 page)

Ivy reached out to trace his scar with a fingertip. “I find most Frenchmen too soft and weak. I prefer a man who makes me feel like a woman, a man who's…masterful.”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her roughly against him, crushing her breasts against his broad, hard chest. Then his mouth descended on hers, his lips just as hard and uncompromising as the rest of him. His tongue forced its way deep into Ivy's mouth, testing her. She didn't pull away but welcomed the assault, stroking his tongue with her own and trying to push it aside so she could possess his mouth as he'd possessed hers. She lost that particular battle on purpose. Her arms snaked around his solid waist so she could hold him even tighter and feel his firm, insistent shaft demanding release from the confines of his trousers. She boldly grabbed his tight buttocks and squeezed, causing him to grunt in surprise as she ground her hips against him.

Still plundering her mouth, he reached for her breast, fondling and squeezing the ample flesh until the nipple became hard and swollen, demanding attention. He worked the rigid nubbin ruthlessly, sending jolt after jolt of pleasure deep into Ivy's core, making her so dizzy with rising heat, her head lolled back. Finally, he transferred his kiss to her breast, sucking greedily and raking the tender flesh with his teeth almost to the point of exquisite pain, until Ivy thought she'd spiral into a dizzying swoon of bliss.

Dragomilov released her and stepped away, his eyes bright with lust and his breathing quick and labored. He muttered something in Russian, and before Ivy knew what was happening, he swung her into his arms as though she weighed less than a feather. She entwined her arms around his thick neck and hung on as he strode across the sitting room, shouting for the concierge. The man opened the door just in time. He must've been used to seeing the Russian carrying naked women in his arms, for his face remained expressionless as he stood aside to let Dragomilov pass.

He managed to carry her upstairs effortlessly, thrilling Ivy with such a sweeping romantic gesture worthy of any Dumas hero. And when he reached his boudoir, he set her down gently on the bed and then quickly undressed. Her heart raced out of control at the sight of his body, even more glorious naked than clothed, his long, thick cock hard and ready to take her. She wanted so badly to please him.

“Kneel on the edge of the bed,” he said.

She did as he commanded, resting her weight on her elbows to position her willing backside for maximum access, though she was disappointed that he would choose not to face her during their first sexual encounter. She wanted to stare deeply into his eyes and read his soul as they screwed, but this could be a test to see if she was compliant with his demands. As she waited, staring straight ahead, she was determined to pass no matter how roughly he treated her.

He came up behind her, positioned the head of his prick against her moist opening, and entered her with one strong thrust that made Ivy yelp in surprise. But she was wet and ready for him, so her body stretched to accept the invasion. She let out a loud hiss of pleasure and settled in to give him the ride of his life.

He grabbed her hips to steady himself, and thrust back and forth, in and out, while Ivy moved her hips to match him, making appropriate noises designed to excite him. His deep penetration made her feel as though she were being split in half, though the familiar friction of sexual congress stirred Ivy's own passions, and she soon felt overcome by the mindless loss of control.

As he moved faster and faster, his hips slapping against her ass, racing toward his own climax, she cried out, “Harder…harder!” and he complied with a fierce growl.

When Ivy's orgasm crashed over her like a speeding locomotive, she flung back her head and screamed. Serge laughed, and fucked her harder and faster.

Finally spent, she peeked over her shoulder, pleased to see his eyes closed and lips parted, his handsome face transported with passion. Then he bellowed something in Russian and shuddered with his climax, spending himself inside her for what seemed like hours.

When he finished, he groaned, “That was magnificent,” and flopped on his back across the bed. Ivy stretched out beside him like a contented cat, letting her fingers caress his damp chest. He kissed her again and grinned roguishly. “You will do, Mademoiselle Doucette.”

Not exactly the enthusiastic reaction Ivy had been hoping for, but they were still strangers, and she had time to win his heart. She smiled. “May I tell the concierge to retrieve my bag from the waiting cab, and pay the poor driver?”

The count closed his eyes, a smile playing about his sensuous lips. “He did that the moment he saw me carry you naked up the stairs.”

Ivy chuckled in delight and kissed his chest. “You are one of a kind, Count Dragomilov.”

Eyes still closed, he murmured, “Now that we have fucked and will be living together, you may call me Serge, Ivy. What about this Madame Soubrise? Surely she will be expecting you.”

“She thinks I'm off nursing my sick sister.”

He laughed. “Very enterprising.”

Exhausted, Serge fell asleep, but Ivy lay awake, thinking of the expensive diamonds and emeralds he'd bought for another woman. She wondered about her identity, and if she presented a threat to Ivy's newfound place as Serge Dragomilov's mistress. She also wondered how she could ever persuade him to give her those stunning jewels.

Chapter Nine

Régine ran a reverential hand over the smooth, polished wood of Odile's bed, savoring the happiness spreading through her like a healing balm. She fervently prayed that Odile was conferring her blessing on her upcoming liaison with Darius.

The bed had been delivered and set up in her second bedchamber an hour ago. She had always sported with her other lovers in her own boudoir, but she would reserve this room and this particular bed for Darius.

She ran her hand lightly over the silken sheets and fluffed the bank of soft down pillows. She tested the strength of the bondage rings, bemused. Did Darius suspect that they weren't just for decoration, that they could add spice and variety to anyone's lovemaking?

Perhaps he had bought the bed because he envisioned lashing her to the rings and having his way with her as she lay open, helpless and at his mercy. The few times a lover had requested tying her down, she had always refused, not trusting any man enough to give him such absolute dominion over her. So why did the tantalizing picture of Darius doing just that suddenly send tremors of excitement rippling along every sensitive nerve ending?

Perhaps his motives were no more sinister than seeing how much she had wanted her friend's bed at the auction and buying the gift because it would make her happy.

To please
her.

That's what he had promised. To please her.

A courtesan's success depended on satisfying her clients. Her own desires were secondary. The more considerate lovers also tried to reciprocate occasionally, but only as an enticement for her to perform better and give them more than their money's worth.

She shouldn't be so cynical. A few lovers had imprudently fallen head over heels in love with her and also wanted to give her the respectability of marriage. But they were rare.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Molly said from the doorway, “but several packages have arrived for you.”

“I hope they're from Clarridge and not Dragomilov.” She gave one of the pillows a final plumping. “Well, let's go open them, shall we?”

Three packages awaited her on the drawing room table. Régine took the long rectangular one over to the settee and quickly unwrapped it, revealing a bottle of absinthe.

She opened the accompanying card. “‘To the woman who is as mysterious and enchanting as the Green Fairy. Clarridge.'” She smiled at Molly. “Ah, he must've seen the Mucha poster.”

“Everyone in Paris has seen the Mucha poster.”

“I'll give him high marks for originality. Most men would've given me champagne.” Indeed, many had, and she'd appreciated every expensive bottle. But it was gratifying when a man took the time and thought to come up with something unique.

Régine opened the second box, and its card. “‘This reminded me of you.' Again, signed Clarridge.” Her fingers parted the tissue paper with the eagerness of a child opening presents on her birthday. She gasped when she lifted his second gift out of its box.

Done in bronze, the small sculpture depicted a voluptuous naked siren draped along a rock by the ocean. Her long hair trailed down her shoulders and over her hip in sensuous whiplash curves that seemed to caress her glorious leggy body, blending with the waves undulating up and around her perch. She stared down pensively into the sea, which was a smooth, flat oval base suitable for collecting calling cards or Régine's hairpins.

“This is an absolutely stunning work of art,” she said, “worthy of Rodin himself.”

“Must've cost his lordship a pretty penny,” Molly added.

Régine needed both hands to pass her the heavy figurine. “Display this on the hall table, where all can see it the minute they walk in.”

“Right away, miss.”

Régine managed to contain her growing excitement and waited until her maid returned before opening the third box. She read Clarridge's card. “‘Every queen must wear a crown.'”

Her fingers trembled as she gently lifted the jewelry case out and unlatched the lid. When she lifted it, she let out a breathless, “Oh, my God. Will you look at this?”

Molly craned her neck. “What is it, miss?”

Régine removed the elaborate Byzantine gold headdress studded with rich cabochon emeralds and glowing golden topaz, with three long strands of baroque pearls on each side that would hang down to frame her face with soft, translucent light.

“What magnificent craftsmanship,” she said. “La Belle Otero will turn green and want to scratch my eyes out when she sees it.” The vulgar, flamboyant Caroline Otero was Régine's chief rival.

She walked over to the mirror and settled the heavy crown atop her head, reveling in the way light danced off the warm gold and the pearls whispered against her cheeks with the slightest motion.

She turned her head this way and that, admiring the richness of metal and gems. “I feel as regal as the Empress Theodosia.”

“You look like an empress, miss.” Molly cocked her head thoughtfully. “This Lord Clarridge fellow put some thought into choosing these gifts. Anyone could see that Dragomilov's diamond necklace was fine and very expensive, but more a reflection of his own wealth and generosity. But these gifts? They're not about Clarridge or his fortune. They're a reflection of how the man sees
you
.”

Not a mercenary harlot who sold her body for gold Louis, but a green fairy, a sea siren and an empress.

She carefully removed the heavy headdress. “Sweet of him, and I am charmed, but such an attitude is not terribly realistic in my world. One must be clearheaded and never fall in love.”

Molly took the crown back to its box. “You can afford to let a little magic into your life, miss.”

Régine cared as much for Luc as she had for any man, but truth be told, life with the stodgy older man had certainly lacked magic.

“Before I take up with the earl,” she said, “I had better inform Monsieur Valendry that our liaison has come to its sad but inevitable conclusion.”

“Do give the poor man some warning. Men being the proud creatures that they are, there's no telling how he'll react to being given the boot.”

Régine had endured a number of acrimonious partings in her career and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“He's a sophisticated gentleman, Molly. He'll accept my decision with good grace and wish me well.”

“I hope you're right, miss.”

The following morning, Régine awoke refreshed and optimistic, humming a sprightly tune she'd heard in a cabaret. Last night, she'd finished her letter to Luc, enclosed Odile's riding crop, and sent them by messenger to the Valendry house, with emphatic orders to deliver the package directly into Monsieur Valendry's hands.

How would Luc feel when he realized she was ending their association? He might allow himself a brief twinge of
tristesse
,
but it would vanish. He'd accept her decision and find himself another lover with a strong arm and a taste for satisfying his particular desires.

When she arrived at Luc's bank to close out her account, she was shown to the offices of the aptly named Monsieur Poisson of the thick, pursed lips and pinched, sour face. She recognized his type at once, the disapproving prude who always made love to his wife in the dark.

He didn't smile and wouldn't look her in the eye when she presented him with her bank book that recorded every deposit and withdrawal.

He flipped through it, rose to consult his files, sat back down and cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Laflamme, this is most embarrassing. I'm afraid this account does not exist.”

Régine felt a solid lump of fear settle in the pit of her stomach. “Of course it exists. You are holding the evidence of its existence in your hand.”

He flicked his wrist and sent the book slithering toward her across his desk. “This is an obvious forgery.”

She snatched back her precious bank book, her only proof that she had money deposited here. Blood rushed to her face and she saw red. “I don't know what game you are playing, monsieur,
but I have regularly patronized this bank for the last year and deposited a goodly sum each time under the personal direction of Monsieur Valendry himself.” Her voice rose. “And now you have the audacity to tell me my account is empty, and my life savings are
gone
?”

“That is exactly what I am telling you,” he said, “because according to my files, this account does not exist, which means that you have never patronized this bank.”

“Does Monsieur Valendry know of this—this outrage?”