The Courtesan's Bed (5 page)

She grinned wickedly. “My pleasure.”

As she slid down the bed as slowly and sinuously as a snake, she kept a sharp eye on Coco.

The black woman traced Max's full lower lip with a fingertip. “And what shall I do for you, monsieur?”

“I wish to caress your breasts while Ivy is hard at work.”

The bed creaked as Coco positioned herself so she could dangle her pendulous breasts over Max's face. She guided one dark nipple to his mouth, which he grabbed greedily.

Ivy propped herself on one elbow and grasped his erect penis, squeezing until Max hummed like a well-oiled machine. Since coming to the brothel and receiving an eye-opening education in the amatory arts, she'd learned that the whole secret to being a skilled cocksucker was pacing and variety. Ivy had plenty of practice and was an expert at both. She ran her tongue along the silken, rigid shaft, starting slowly. When she reached the ridged tip, she flicked her tongue across it back and forth, savoring its taste. She kept one eye on the rest of Max, who had hold of both of Coco's breasts and was caressing them in a frenzy of abandon. She was groaning so loudly in oblivious pleasure, Ivy wished she were in her place. Well, Max was fair and generous. Her turn would come.

When she tired of licking him, she took him in her mouth and sucked, gently at first, then harder as she moved up and down, mimicking intercourse. Sometimes she would use her teeth to rake his sensitive flesh lightly, causing his body to jerk in surprise.

Soon her head was bobbing, her mouth tight and slippery.

Max was going wild, groaning as if in the throes of some exquisite torture. A light film of sweat had broken out all over his body, filling Ivy's nostrils with his pleasant musky masculine scent. His legs were rigid from the strain of bracing himself for the coming climax.

He was ready. Ivy could always tell.

When he released Coco and stared down wordlessly at Ivy, she grasped his tight balls and rolled them while she pumped his cock with her mouth.

“Oh, God!” Max cried, his eyes glazing, the fingers of his left hand tangling in Ivy's hair.

An orgasm rippled along his shaft, causing a squirt of hot, salty ejaculate to fill her mouth and triumph to fill the rest of her.

His body jerked helplessly as a hooked fish on a line, his grunts and groans of ecstasy so loud, Ivy bet the occupants of the next room could easily hear him through the wall and were green with envy.

Finally, the pulsating slowed and sputtered to a standstill. Ivy detached from Max and got out of bed to go to the bathroom and spit out his come. She rinsed her mouth thoroughly until the taste was gone.

She returned to the bed, where a sated Max lay without even enough energy to stroke Coco's thigh.

“That was incredible.” Max's eyes remained closed in bliss. “Thank you, Ivy.”

“I'm glad I could please you,” she said. Whenever she gave him an incredible experience, her tip increased. So perhaps he would be more amenable to making her his full-time mistress.

Max then slept for several hours, allowing Ivy and Coco the chance to doze as well. When he awoke, he had a glass of champagne while he watched Ivy and Coco pleasure each other. After they'd diddled each other to a climax, Max, now refreshed and hard once again, dismissed Coco with a fine tip and made love to Ivy exclusively, which sent her optimism soaring.

Later, while they reclined against the pillows, damp and musky with lovemaking, they polished off the last of the champagne.

She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. “Max, do you think I'm a skillful lover?”

“If I didn't, I wouldn't request you and Coco every time I come here, now would I?”

“But wouldn't you like to enjoy me exclusively and not have to share me with anyone else?”

He frowned as he studied her out of narrowed eyes. “What are you suggesting, you little minx?”

“Become my protector. Take me away from this place. You could set me up in a modest apartment.” Of course, she would want something as luxurious as Odile de la Montaigne's residence eventually. “I am a very frugal young woman and could live very well on a modest allowance.” At first. She would wheedle more money out of him later. “I would be at your disposal day and night. Wouldn't you like that?”

Max sighed wearily as though he'd heard such a proposition many times before. “I'm not in the market for a mistress, Ivy. Patronizing this brothel more than satisfies my physical needs. Besides, I love my wife, and while she'll turn a blind eye to my regularly visiting a brothel, she would not tolerate my keeping a mistress.” He smiled. “And while I find you would certainly top the list if I were looking for one, I have no desire to juggle two lives and incur such an added expense. I'm an old man and no longer have the stamina.”

Bitter disappointment welled up inside her, tempered with resentment. She tried to think of an appropriate reply that wouldn't anger him.

“You're not old, my dear Max. Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”

“I regret having to disappoint such a lovely and accomplished young lady, but I'm afraid not.”

What did women like de la Montaigne and Régine Laflamme do when their lover rejected them? Silly question. Those two beauties had never been rejected in their lives. Ivy wasn't in their league—yet.

She mustn't antagonize Max or her very rich goose wouldn't leave her any more golden eggs. And she couldn't risk that. After buying the dildos, she had to replenish her bank account.

She touched her finger to her lips and placed it against his, transferring a kiss. “If that's the way you feel, then of course I shall content myself with your presence when you call at Madame's.”

He pulled her down on top of him and kissed her as if he'd resolved the matter most satisfactorily. “As will I.”

He glanced at her clock, which said four a.m. “It's time for me to take leave of your enchanting presence, my dear Ivy.”

Max rose, dressed quickly and left a formidable stack of gold Louis on her nightstand. She smiled, thanked him and blew him a kiss as he walked out the door. But the minute she was alone, her smile froze, and she hated him for daring to so callously shatter her dreams.

She sat on the edge of the bed and counted more gold than he had ever given her. But the coins were nothing compared to what she could have as his mistress, and she bitterly resented his miserliness, for she had mistaken him for a generous man. Yes, a mistress would be more costly than regular visits to a brothel, but the kind of man she wanted would think she was worth it, just as Serge Dragomilov thought his Odile was worth any extravagance.

She jingled the coins in her hand, their heavy, musical clink inspiring her. Serge Dragomilov, Odile's lover… She had seen him once, riding his magnificent black horse in the Bois de Boulogne. So proud, so dashing, with that dueling scar on his cheek. Definitely a man capable of causing any female heart to flutter. Since Odile's death, had he found a new mistress? She hadn't heard, and Madame Soubrise's girls kept abreast of all the latest society gossip.

Why couldn't
she
, Ivy Doucette, become Dragomilov's next mistress?

Did she have the nerve to approach a great man like Serge Dragomilov and offer to take the great de la Montaigne's place? The wealthy Russian could have his pick of beauties. Why would he choose a lowly former seamstress for the honor of sharing his bed and his life?

She rose and candidly appraised her looks in the cheval glass. Unfortunately, she was merely pretty, not breathtaking like Régine Laflamme.

The plain, brutal truth was that Ivy wasn't special enough to intrigue the likes of Serge Dragomilov.

She had to make herself stand out somehow. She had to discover what made her special.

She frowned at her reflection.

Perhaps what she lacked in distinction, she could make up for in boldness.

But what could she do that was outstanding enough to catch his eye?

Something no other woman had ever done.

An outrageous idea presented itself, and a slow, sly smile spread across her face.

After going into the bathroom and washing away the scent of sex from her body, she put on a robe and went to the bureau. She opened the top drawer and took out the collection of dildos she'd purchased at the auction. Then she selected the largest one.

“This will do very nicely.”

Next she took out her writing case, removed a sheet of paper, an envelope, a pen and bottle of ink. She sat down and collected her thoughts very carefully. When she knew exactly what to say to intrigue him, she wrote Serge Dragomilov a note, blotted the wet ink and slipped her message into the envelope, saying a little prayer for luck.

She couldn't tell a soul what she was planning, for if Madame Soubrise learned that she was plotting to leave the brothel, she would make Ivy's life hell.

Tomorrow she would enclose the note with the dildo, and when she had her usual free hour, slip out and send her provocative package to Monsieur
Dragomilov's residence.

Ivy Doucette, a little nobody from Rouen, planned to become one of the most famous, sought-after courtesans in France.

Someday she intended to become as famous as Régine Laflamme, Odile de la Montaigne, Liane de Pougy and La Belle Otero. Rich gentlemen would throw gold Louis at her feet, and she would pick only the wealthiest and most handsome men to be her lovers. They would set her up in her own spacious apartment. They would not only give her a generous allowance, they would send her to Worth's regularly for her stunning gowns, and shower her with diamonds, emeralds and pearls the size of small birds' eggs. She would have her own carriage drawn by two high-stepping bay horses, and she would become a daily fixture in the Bois de Boulogne. Artists would vie to paint her and photographers to take her photograph for advertising postcards. Women would whisper about her in envious, awestruck tones, and the men's gazes would linger hungrily. She and her protector would sit at their reserved table at Maxim's while drinking vintage champagne and eating caviar, though the thought of eating fish eggs turned her stomach. She would have a box at the opera too, and everyone would stare and whisper when she took her seat with her latest protector.

When Max Montblanc realized the opportunity he'd missed, his heart—and large cock—would ache with regret. Ivy smiled in anticipation. That would be a most fitting revenge.

Chapter Five

The following afternoon, Régine sat at her desk in the sitting room and consulted her appointment book.

Luc needed time to heal, so he wouldn't be joining her for several nights. Her whole day and evening were hers to do as she wished. Perhaps she would visit art galleries and add to her growing collection. A simple evening at home curled up on her chaise with a good novel, an excellent bottle of wine, and a robust cheese sounded appealing. Or she could invite Beaucaire to join her for a quiet supper, so he could tell her why he had been sharing champagne with Clarridge at Maxim's last night.

The door opened and Molly appeared, her brow wrinkled in distress. “You won't believe who's waiting in the foyer. He says he's the Earl of Clarridge.”

Régine stared at her. “Clarridge? Here?”

Molly twisted the doorknob. “That's what he says. What shall I tell him? That you're not at home this evening?”

“Tell him I'm not receiving callers, and send him on his way.” What did she care that Clarridge had come to Paris to see her?

“Very good.”

Just as Molly had her hand on the doorknob to leave, Régine said, “On second thought, show him to the drawing room. I'll join him shortly.”

“Do you think that's wise, miss?”

“If I don't settle this once and for all, he'll never leave me in peace.” The Granger men were nothing if not persistent. “And I must admit that I'm curious to learn the reason for his call. See that we're not disturbed.”

Molly left to do her bidding.

Why was Régine allowing Darius Granger to turn her life upside down? She was no longer a poor governess of eighteen, hostage to the petty whims of others for a roof over her head and food in her stomach. She was a wealthy, powerful woman, and feared no one.

She opened the desk drawer and took out Odile's rosary. She closed her fingers over the smooth ivory beads, squeezing until they dug into her palm, then she slipped them into the pocket of her afternoon gown. Immediately, she felt as though her late friend were standing right beside her and sharing her strength.

She inspected her appearance in the mirror before going downstairs. The Nile green gown flattered her warm, fair coloring, but the bodice was cut more modestly than most of the gowns she usually wore to receive potential protectors. Rather than putting up her heavy, curly mane, she'd brushed it out and simply tied it back with a thin satin ribbon.

A headache throbbed, and she rubbed her forehead in annoyance. Damn Clarridge. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

He was in the sitting room, his back to her as he examined the Toulouse-Lautrec portrait of Odile.

Régine stepped inside the sunny room but did not close the door. She studied him quietly with the objectivity of a woman in the profession of knowing men. The thick, midnight darkness of Clarridge's hair begged for the restless exploration of a woman's fingers. His shoulders were not particularly broad, but strong enough to rest one head's upon and feel comforted and sheltered. Although his frock coat skimmed his waist and hips, they of course would be narrow and pleasing. And if he was anything like his father, his legs were undoubtedly strong, lean and as beautiful as a Rodin sculpture.

Even with his back to her, the young earl still dominated her sitting room as no man had ever done. Many men—businessmen, noblemen, even a prince or two—had occupied Régine's sitting room, but none as powerfully as Clarridge.

This is the spawn of the selfish bastard who seduced and ruined me. Why is he here? What does he want?