The Courtesan's Bed by Sandrine O'Shea

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.”
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œBegging your pardon,