Chapter Five

ZAYED BIN SALEH AL-RAHMAN'S private jet is about as luxurious as you'd expect from a member of the Middle Eastern nobility. Plush seats, far better than anything you'd find in first class on a commercial flight, a cabin staff of three, two bedrooms in the back. Decorated in damask-striped wallpaper, velvet and silk upholstery, marble-topped tables. And they have everything on this plane: the best champagne and liquor—not that I ever drink when flying. The food is gourmet, the service impeccable. I'd never fly any other way if I could help it.

We've all brought a good supply of fashion and gossip magazines and are dressed in our yoga pants and slippers. We've done this routine before, Regan, Rosalyn, and I. Flown in Zayed's jet, worked together.

Regan and Rosalyn are my best friends. They're not the kind of friends I had in elementary school and high school. No, I left those girls far behind me. Those kinds of innocent friendships. And of course, I never had sex with any of those girls. But that's part of this business.

I'm not really into girls, although Regan does have a wicked tongue. But I couldn't get into it without the requisite payment. That makes everything work for me. And these girls are hot, I have to admit that. Both gorgeous blondes, Rosalyn with big blue eyes, Regan with almond-shaped green eyes, and both of them with the full breasts I lack. They pose as sisters, but I've always doubted the truth of that. Still, they look enough alike to get away with it, and frankly, the clients love the idea too much to question it.

Like me, they both seem to actually enjoy the work, which makes them popular. We three are the cream of the crop, even in Deirdre's outfit, which is saying a lot. That's why Zayed asks for us. Perfection for our Arab sheik, always.

They're both curled up on the curved couch in their matching pink outfits. Regan is idly paging through a British fashion magazine; she has this idea that the European editions are classier than the American ones. As though reading classy magazines is going to have any impact on what we are. But I never bother her about it. Let her have her illusions.

Rosalyn is painting her nails a pale, shimmery pink that sets off her lightly tanned skin. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a sexy tumble, her head bent, showing a sensual curve of neck. Oh, yes, I can appreciate their beauty. Any woman can feel the beauty of another female, whether they want to admit it or not.

I'm bored. We've only been in the air an hour and I'm restless already, unable to relax. I usually plug in my iPod and drift on the music, but it's not working this time. Pulling off my headset, I sift through the pile of magazines, but nothing interests me until I find an article about a woman in Detroit working with teen girls recovering from drug addiction. I don't know why this particular article touches me, but it does. These girls are so sad, so alone. I know how that feels. And maybe some of it has to do with Joshua talking about the boys he works with on the hockey team. When I get to the part about some of the girls walking the streets for drug money, I go cold all over.

“Someone should help them,” I mutter.

Regan looks up from her bright fashion ads. “What?”

I tell them about the article. “Someone should help them. I mean, there's the woman in this article, but how many girls are out there, all over the country? How many of them will end up on the streets?”

“Too many,” Rosalyn says, nodding.

“I can't stand it, the idea of it. That there's no one who cares about them. That they're so completely neglected. How many of them will end up pregnant? Dead? It's too awful.”

“Why are you getting so worked up, Val?” Regan asks. She's looking at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.

“I don't know. I guess … I can see myself in them. And I wish … I wish I could help.”

“No one would let people like us near their kids.”

“Yes, you're probably right. But still…”

“Honey, don't worry yourself about it.” This is Rosalyn, trying to soothe me. But she always sees the world through the most incredibly rose-tinted glasses. Her personal form of denial that makes this kind of life possible.

I look back down at the magazine, at the pictures of these young girls, their eyes dark, hollow, even as they smile for the camera. I can imagine what they must have been through.

No one would let people like us near their kids.

Yes, Regan's right, I know. And what would I do for them, anyway?

Maybe what Joshua does. Just be there. Listen. Help them to see something of the beauty of the world. I sometimes think that's what saved me from going in an even worse direction. Loving art. Learning about it. Appreciating the beauty.

A quick flash of the pleasure on Joshua's face as he spoke about the boys he works with. One of the things I admire about him.

I flip the magazine closed and stand up, sigh, walk the length of the plane, lean over a seat and stare out a window, watching the earth glide by beneath a thin layer of clouds.

I cannot stop thinking about him.

Stop it!

Shit.

I straighten up, push the closest call button, and ask the girls, “Anyone else want a cocktail?”

Rosalyn glances up from her nails. “A cocktail? We never drink in the air, Val. It makes us puffy. What's up with you?”

I shrug. “I just need to relax, that's all. Come on, drink with me.”

“Maybe a small glass of champagne wouldn't hurt,” Regan says. “Especially you and your sour mood. Ooh, I feel like a college kid sneaking booze into the dorm.” She grins.

“You've never been in a college dorm in your life, Regan,” Rosalyn says.

“I have a good imagination. Have a drink with us, Ros.”

She sighs. “Okay. I'm sure it won't kill me.”

Lhe steward arrives and after some discussion we order champagne. He brings it back within moments, a nice Mumm's Cuvée. I settle back onto the sofa and take a long sip, feel it loosen my limbs right away. I'm not a big champagne drinker; the bubbles always go right to my head.

“So,” Rosalyn asks, “when are you going to tell us what's wrong, Val?”

Jesus. Is it that obvious? Or is it only because these women are my friends? They know me as well as anyone does. As much as I let anyone know me aside from Enzo. And even he only knows so much.

I shrug, pulling up my shoulders, aware suddenly of how tight they are, despite the champagne. “I don't know. Nothing is wrong, really. I've just been … a little reflective lately.”

Regan shakes her head. “That's not necessarily a good thing for us, Val. We're the live-in-the-moment girls. You know it works better that way.”

“I know. I know.” I take another sip of the champagne, savor the mild bite of the bubbles on my tongue.

Rosalyn, always the more gentle of the two, asks, “Do you want to tell us what brought this up?”

“I don't know.” I stop, let out a long, sighing breath. If there's anyone in the world I can talk to, it's these two women. Why am I so scared? But I need to tell someone before I really do lose my mind. “It's … a man.”

“A client?” This from Regan, her golden brows shooting up, arching over her green cat-eyes.

“What? No. God, no. Not that this is any better.”

Regan asks, “Who then, Val?”

“He's someone I met at the opera. A client canceled last minute and I was there already … He was sitting next to me.”

I remember that night, how spectacular he looked in his crisp suit. Rugged and elegant at the same time, all calm, cool male. The way he smelled.

“Tell us about him,” Rosalyn prompts.

I twist a strand of hair around my finger, take a breath. What is there to say? What do I want to say? There is something sort of lovely about keeping Joshua my little secret. But perhaps something even better in talking about him

“There isn't a whole lot to tell. Joshua is … he's beautiful. I don't mean in a pretty-boy way. He's extremely masculine. And he's smart, which always gets me. Kills me, really. Smart and generous. He has this gorgeous, smoky voice … We went out once, for drinks, talked. And I could barely concentrate on the conversation. He makes me …” I stop, tug on the end of my hair. “God, I don't know. It's better that I've hardly seen him, hardly talked to him. I know I should keep it that way. I should cut things off right now.”

“Yes, you probably should,” Regan says quietly.

“I know you're right. And I tried to. But I can't seem to do it. I'm too … intrigued. He's gotten under my skin somehow.” I pause, sip my champagne. “To be honest, I can't stop thinking about him. Like some teenager with a crush. How pathetic is that?”

“Maybe that's all it is,” Rosalyn suggests. “A crush.”

“Maybe.”

“Look, Val,” Regan says, her voice urgent. “You cannot be thinking of seeing this guy, starting something with him. We don't do that, have relationships. Date. Real dates, I mean. You cannot reveal yourself to someone not in this business. It's dangerous to you personally, and to the rest of us.”

“I know,” I say quietly, staring down at the glass in my hand for a moment. But suddenly I'm angry. I raise my gaze to hers. “Don't you think I know all that, Regan? But I can't seem to help myself with this guy. You have no idea howl feel! I barely have a grasp on it myself. But it's not as though I'm trying to start a relationship. I just want to see him. Be with him once. Don't I deserve that much? Or are we such damaged goods we deserve nothing just for ourselves? Jesus!”

“Okay, Val. Calm down, honey,” Rosalyn comforts, a hand on my arm. She's right. I need to calm down.

“Val, I didn't mean to upset you,” Regan says. “I really didn't. I'm just trying to be your reality check. Forgive me for saying so, but it seemed like you needed one.”

“I know. God.” I run a hand through my hair, my fingers tangling, and pull hard, until my scalp burns. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, then open them and find both girls watching me. “I'm sorry, Regan. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just… this guy has done a number on my head. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, hon. Don't worry about it. Just… watch yourself, okay? Don't get in any deeper than you already have. You need to protect yourself, Val.”

“I will.” I nod, sip my champagne, letting the bubbles and the alcohol go to work, loosening my shoulders again. But inside I know it's all bullshit. Because it's too late. I'm already in deep. And I'm not going to stop until I see this thing to whatever sad end is in store for me. Because I know it'll be sad. Fucking story of my life, after all, isn't it?

THE PLAZA IS LIKE no other hotel in the world. Old-world elegance, done even better than in Europe. This, of course, is where Zayed has his New York apartment.

We take the elevator up and the bellman lets us in, turning on lights, opening curtains to the view of Central Park South, with the small lake, the sweep of green lawn. It's late in the afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to lower in the sky, to change colors, going soft and gold and watery.

That pale golden light illuminates Zayed's apartment, which is done in classic Plaza style: everything in deep blue and cream damask, heavy gold braid, ornate King Louis pieces everywhere, crystal chandeliers suspended over the enormous, high-ceilinged rooms. The drapes look as though they weigh a ton, the fabric is so heavy and lush. The room is perfectly silent, nothing but the whisper of the brass luggage carts rolling over the plush carpet behind us.

The room steward asks, “Shall we run a bath for any of you?”

“Yes, please,” Rosalyn says, and I nod agreement.

“Not for me, thank you.” Regan flops down on a creamy sofa perched on delicate, carved legs. “I'm starving, though. Send up a pot of black tea and some of those currant scones, if they're fresh.”

“Right away, miss.”

The white-jacketed steward nods sharply, and one of his team goes off to run our baths, while the third makes a note; the food order, I imagine.

“May I get you anything else, ladies?”

“Tea for me, as well,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

There is nothing more luxurious than a pot of tea at the Plaza. I don't know why. It's English, rich and delicate all at the same time. It's a favorite indulgence of ours.

Since Zayed owns a suite here, there is no need to tip the bellmen; everything is taken care of. They finish their business and leave.

I pull a few items from my cosmetics case, including my favorite lilac bath salts, a special brand I get from France. Mostly I adore it for the beautiful packaging, but it does smell lovely, and it makes my skin soft. In the white marble bathroom I strip off my plane-weary clothes, pour a handful of the salts into the tub, and slip down into the steaming water.

The bathrooms at the Plaza are truly spectacular, everything done in slabs of snow-white marble, the fixtures covered in fourteen-carat gold. Even the deep, enormous tub is trimmed in golden scrollwork, like something you'd see at Versailles.

I love this kind of luxury. My life has accustomed me to it. On the inside, though, there is still a part of me that sometimes can't believe I'm here. Maybe that makes me appreciate it more?

Maybe. When I'm not busy questioning how someone like me could possibly deserve it, which I do all too often.

But today I don't want to linger on that thought pattern. The warm, scented water feels too good. And these next days will be pure decadence. No, the thing to do is to immerse myself in the experience. This is the good part of my life: the luxury, the sex. Why shouldn't I enjoy it as much as possible?

I take a sponge, squeeze some liquid soap onto it, and run it over my skin. The soap is like satin, all cool and slippery. Lovely. And as I lean my head against a rolled-up towel thoughtfully arranged by the room steward, I can't help but see Joshua's face, his dark, gleaming eyes, his lush mouth.

I'm getting turned on simply imagining his face; that and the silky sponge gliding over my skin, the heat of the water. And in my mind he is there with me, naked, wet.

Oh, yes.

He reaches out and strokes the curve of my shoulder, then lower, over the swell of one breast, and my nipples tighten.

Joshua …

I slide the sponge over my breasts, my nipples hardening quickly. There is an insistent ache between my thighs, a craving which grows sharper and sharper. Moving the sponge down between my legs, I stroke my swelling sex with it. And it's too good: the gentle touch of the sponge, his face in my mind. I need to come, so badly it's like a knife blade pressing against the throbbing lips of my sex.

I rub harder, pressing the sponge onto my clit, moan softly.

The door swings open and Regan is there, a cup of tea in her hand.

“Here, I thought you might want your tea. Just a little sugar, right?”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

I sit up, dropping the sponge into the water. Regan's green eyes take in my hardened nipples, but she doesn't say anything. Not that I care; it's nothing she hasn't seen before.

She sets the cup on a small vanity stool next to the tub. “I'm going to take a quick nap. See you later, okay?”

“Yes, sure.”

“I have a feeling this is going to be a busy night. You know how Zayed is. You should be … rested, Val.” She grins at me, and I understand she knows exactly what was going on in here before she came in.

She's right. Zayed will keep us working for hours, and I'd better have that keen sexual edge to feed on. I pick up my tea instead of the sponge, which is what I'd really like to do. Yes, slide that sponge over my still-aching mound, bring myself to orgasm with Joshua's beautiful face, his voice, in my mind.

But I'm a professional. That means something in this business, regardless of what most of the world might think. I refuse to disappoint.

I sigh softly, sip my tea. It's perfect, as always. As I should be. As I will be, for Zayecl tonight.

I push thoughts of Joshua to the back of my mind. I try to, anyway. But the warm water is too much like silk against my skin. I swear I can feel it moving between my thighs like some lovely, ghostly tongue.

I stand, get out of the bath, and dry myself off.

Joshua Spencer has ruined everything for me. But I'm not angry. I'm simply yearning, in a way I never have in my entire life. I am helpless against it, this yearning. And I don't like it one bit.

AT EIGHT O'CLOCK THAT night we are all three lined up in the living room of the suite, ready for Zayed to come through the door. He's been in his room freshening up, having used a private entrance, and we have been instructed to wait here for him. A lavish meal sits on a table behind us. We are all dressed in Zayed's favorite lingerie, all jewel-toned silk trimmed in lace, our hair up, exactly as he likes it. We are his perfect little harem.

I am trembling already, my body humming with pent-up lust ever since my bath. I can smell Regan's perfume, Rosalyn's shampoo, as they stand next to me, clean and beautiful, and lush, female curves.

I wonder which one of them will use her mouth on me tonight?

Zayed comes into the room, smiling. His face was handsome once; now it is a bit weathered, but his teeth are still a glorious flash of white against his brown skin, and his eyes, so dark they are nearly black, sparkle with intelligence. He is not a large man, but he radiates power, something I always find attractive. He is in his early sixties, I would guess. Elegant, as most of my clients are. He carries himself like royalty, which apparently he is, in his country. He wears American suits, always dark, formal, with a bright silk tie, but he's removed it now in order to relax and enjoy his meal with his private houris. His head is uncovered, which happens only in privacy.

I like Zayed. We all do. He's kind to us. Demanding yet gentle. He's a true sybarite, and he loves nothing more than to shower that opulence on us.

“Good evening, Zayed,” we all say, like wind-up dolls, making him grin widely.

“Good evening, ladies. Come, let us eat.”

We sit down at the table, with me on his right, Rosalyn on his left looking lovely in her deep purple silk. Regan pushes Rosalyn's plate over and places her bottom right on the table by Zayed's arm.

“Let me feed our tired sheik,” she says, saucy, flirtatious.

Zayed's eyes twinkle, and he pats her smooth, tan thigh. “You know just how to please me.”

And we do.

We spend the meal feeding him tidbits of meat, tiny, tenderly cooked carrots, dates, and goat cheese, and feeding each other, which he particularly loves to see.

Zayed is an unashamed voyeur, which is mostly what we're here for. Luckily, being watched thrills me. Even having him watch us eat is exciting: the widening of his eyes as Rosalyn slips a date between my lips and I suck on her fingertips, holding her hand there with my own.

Her hands are soft, her skin fragrant, and my sex swells in anticipation of the night to come.

Lhe meal is festive—food, wine—and we listen as Zayed tells us of his day. It's all international business, and I must admit I don't listen too carefully tonight. My mind, my body, are preoccupied with the sensuality of the feast before us, the brush of Regan's breast as she leans over to pick something from my plate.

The meal lasts for well over an hour before Rosalyn stands up, moves behind Zayed's chair, and gently slips his suit jacket from his shoulders.

“How about a little entertainment for you, Zayed?”

“That would be excellent.”

He stands and leads us all into the bedroom. The bed is an enormous affair, all done in the purest white linen and piled with golden pillows, with a tall golden scroll-worked headboard reminiscent of the boudoirs of kings and queens, and flanked by those heavy blue and gold damask curtains. Truly a bed for royalty. But tonight it will hold three whores while we entertain our royal client.

I shiver all over, just a small trembling beneath my skin.

The three of us move to the bed while Zayed settles into a large, plush armchair which has already been pulled to one side of the bed. We kick our shoes off but don't strip down just yet; that's something Zayed will want to draw out, savor.

Rosalyn, ever passive, lays back against the pillows, and I step out of my black silk G-string before crawling onto the bed. I go to her on my hands and knees, my naked sex peeking out from beneath my emerald green silk chemise; I can feel the warm air whisper over my flesh, teasing.

Rosalyn opens her arms for me and I press up against her, my small breasts crushed against the lush flesh of her chest. Her nipples grow hard as I hold still for a few moments, smiling at her. Then her eyes close and she leans her head against the pillows, offering her long, lovely throat to me. I lean in, trail soft kisses over her skin. Skin like a doll's: that fine, that smooth. I dart my tongue out, taste her sweet flesh, feel a ripple of excitement course through me as I hear a soft moan from our client. I lift my head to peek at him and see Regan standing by his chair, massaging his shoulder with one hand. His arm is looped around her narrow waist, his hand caressing her thigh beneath the hem of her pale blue silk slip. He grins at me, nods his head.

“Please continue, my lovelies.”

I turn back to Rosalyn, and her blue eyes are open once more. I press my lips to hers, raspberry lip gloss mingling in a sticky warmth. Kissing a woman is so very different from kissing a man. So much softer. Although it's been a long time since I've kissed a man. We don't do that with our clients. But we do kiss each other, during these sorts of little orgies. The clients love it. I enjoy it, myself. And Rosalyn knows how to kiss, her mouth all soft, moist heat, her tongue gentle, teasing as it slides between my parted lips.

My body is heating up, my sex going wet, just from kissing her, from her breasts crushed against mine, from the knowledge of Zayed watching us. Lusting for us. From knowing I'll be generously paid for what I am about to do.

Oh, yes.

I open my lips wider, really go in, probing her mouth with my tongue, thrusting as though my tongue is a small, pumping cock, which I know she loves. Her hands come up and slide my chemise up my thighs, baring my naked ass, my pussy, to Zayed's view. I wiggle a little for him, for her. It's all the same already.

Her hands are cool and smooth against my skin. And suddenly there is another pair of hands on my bare flesh, soft as only a woman's can be, and I know Regan is touching me. Taking her cue, Rosalyn pulls my chemise over my head, breaking our kiss for a moment. Then I'm back on her, one hand going to the firm mound of her breast. Her nipple is hard, and I tease it through the bright purple silk for a few moments, pinching, pulling. She moans, a sound low in her throat, and beneath me I feel her hips arc up toward my body.

Regan's hands are moving over my skin, lighting up the nerves all over. My sex is slick, pulsing with need already. And when Regan moves her hands in between my thighs, parting the lips of my sex with her thumbs, I gasp into Rosalyn's mouth. That only makes her kiss me harder and push her breast into my hand. I slide her shoulder straps off, one at a time, baring her beautiful breasts.

“Ah, yes,” Zayed murmurs behind us.

Pulling away from Rosalyn's mouth, I lower my head and bury my face between those smooth mounds of flesh. I inhale her perfume, feminine, subtle, fill my senses with it, with that taboo feeling I always get when I fuck a woman. I'm shaking a little all over, with Rosalyn's flesh before me, Regan's fingers massaging my pussy lips. I surge back into her clever hands, and she pushes one fingertip inside me.

“Oh, that's good,” I moan, and she moves deeper.

“Come on, Val,” Rosalyn begs me, her voice soft, breathy. “Come on, suck my tits. Pretty please, Val.”

I bend to my task, pulling one taut nipple into my mouth. Rosalyn has lovely, large, pink nipples, so pale normally, but they go all dark and rosy when she's excited. Her flesh fills my mouth, and she squirms beneath me. It's hard to concentrate with Regan working my pussy with her fingertips. I almost want to come already. I feel like I could come forever tonight.

Regan adds another finger, then another, filling me, and suddenly I am transported back to my bath earlier tonight, and Joshua's face fills my mind as, bit by bit, Regan's fingers fill my sex, going deeper, harder.

I groan against Rosalyn's breast, pull away and move to the other side. I pull the nipple in, taking it between my teeth. Her hands go into my hair as I suck, pulling, pulling, lengthening her hard pink flesh.

“Yeah, Val. Harder,” she gasps. “I need you to fuck me, Val. Please.”

I think of saying this to Joshua as I reach down and pull her silky slip up around her waist and immediately plunge two fingers into her wet heat. Her sex is all warm velvet as I thrust into her, using my thumb to massage her clit.

“Oh, yeah …”

Her voice is low, her breath catching as she tilts her hips into my hand, just as I would if it were Joshua working me the way I am Rosalyn, the way Regan works me with her softly rough hands. We are one female organ now, all nipples and pussy and drenched heat.

“Come, my ladies,” Zayed orders us. “I want to see you come.”

I focus, sucking hard on her nipple, which has become almost impossibly long in my mouth. And I pump my fingers into her. Her hips are moving, her rhythm the same as my own as Regan thrusts inside me. I am so damn wet, I can feel my juices trickling down my thighs. I arch my back, pushing onto those impaling fingers as I work Rosalyn harder, grinding onto her clitoris with my thumb.

Then she's panting, gripping my hair tightly, and I know she's about to climax. She lets out a long keening moan, her body arches into mine, and she's trembling, her sex clenching around my thrusting hand. I suck hard on her tit; I know she loves it when she's coming, loves it to almost hurt. A few more cries and she goes limp. I let her nipple slip from my lips and fall onto her breasts, pillowing my head on her fragrant flesh, my ass high in the air. Regan renews her efforts now, using both hands: one to hold my pussy lips wide open for Zayed to view, one hand thrusting inside me.

“Beautiful, Val,” Zayed says quietly, his voice raw with lust.

I arch harder into Regan's hand, and once more Joshua's face comes into my mind. I don't know why it happens now. I don't care. Pleasure is arcing through me like some inevitable electrical current. And I can't stop the climax that comes hammering down on my body like thunder: that powerful, that relentless.

“Oh! Oh, oh, oh…”

And I'm coming and coming, my sex dripping onto Regan's lovely hands … Joshua's hands. I'm pushing back against her, needing to be filled, needing to be fucked. By him. By him!

“Oh, yes!”

Pleasure, intense, keen, shafting into my body in wave after wave. I am left shaking, weak. But Zayed is not done with us.

“Our poor Regan is left out,” Zayed complains. “I want to see your lovely face between her legs, Val,” he tells me, his voice rough with need, a sensation that reverberates through me as I hear him speak. “I want to see you make her come.”

There is a shifting of bodies as Rosalyn rolls to one side, and in a moment Regan's naked body is laid out beneath me. I part her thighs with a shaking hand and lower my face, breathe in the fragrance of her excitement, like the scent of the ocean.

I move up, tugging at her silky blue slip, and she helps me to pull it over her head. She has a truly spectacular body. Her breasts are a bit smaller than Rosalyn's, yet still quite lush and full, with tight, dusky nipples. She's all long, lean limbs, a bit on the athletic side, without Rosalyn's rounded curves. More like me, but with those gorgeous breasts. I find I can hardly wait to touch her.

I lean in and run my tongue between those lovely, fleshy mounds, following with my hands. I pause to tweak her nipples, hard. She likes things a little rough, and I am all too happy to oblige. She reaches up and grabs my breasts in her hands, squeezes my nipples until I wince, making Zayed and Rosalyn laugh.

I grin at Regan. “Oh, you're in trouble now,” I tell her, hearing Zayed chuckle.

“You must punish her now, Val,” he tells me.

Straddling Regan's body, I sit back on my knees, watching her face. Her green eyes are absolutely glowing.

“As you wish, Zayed,” I say, turning to smile at him over my shoulder.

Reaching for Regan's breasts again, I squeeze them in my palms roughly. She's squirming beneath me, but I know it's all show. She's smiling, and her nipples have gone dark and hard as two large pebbles. I grind my naked sex against hers, feel the slick heat that is as much hers as it is my own. Oh, yes, she loves this, the rough play. So do I.

“With your beautiful mouth, Val,” Zayed instructs me.

Shifting once more, I lay my body over Regan's, skin to skin, breasts to breasts, and she lets out a groan. She is every bit as hot as I am; I can feel the need coming off her body in undulating waves. I feel it as though it is my own, and it is.

Sliding down, inch by inch, I trail my tongue between her breasts, over her rib cage, her taut belly, until I am at the apex of her thighs.

Her sex is mostly shaved, nearly as naked as my own, with just a narrow strip of silky blond hair in the center. Her lips are pink and swollen, glistening with her juices. My own sex clenches in response as I bend to my task.

First a gentle blowing as she spreads her thighs for me, wider and wider, opening herself to me, and to Zayed's view. A quick glance at him and I see Rosalyn is perched on the arm of his chair, naked, her hand working in his lap. Good girl. Our poor Zayed has an erection issue and it can take him a very long time to get off, if he is able to at all. But I think we will be able to take him there tonight.

I turn back to Regan. Inadvertently, my pause has been a tease for her. But I like to torture her a little.

I blow on her flesh again, and she squirms. I smile before letting my tongue dart out. Just one small taste before I pull back.

“Oh, come on, Val. Don't torture me.”

More laughter from Zayed, but that husky edge is there in his voice. Oh, yes, he's as turned on as we are.

Using my fingers, I pinch her pussy lips together, then begin to tug on them, hard. She groans, and I pinch harder, until I know it really hurts. I also know how much she loves this. She's drenched, her juices soaking the pure white coverlet beneath us. I bend my head and lick her slit, one long, torturous stroke, pinching still. She groans louder. And my own sex is full, needy. Needing to come again.

I really go to work then, pinching the lips of her wet sex, lapping at her clit with my tongue, hard and fast. Soon she is moaning, panting, writhing.

“God, Val, make me come. Yes, that's it. Make it hurt. Make me come. Oh!”

I plunge three fingers deep inside her, still pinching one side of her swollen labia and sucking hard on her clit now, imagining that hardened nub of flesh is Joshua's cock in my mouth.

Oh, yes …

And I can almost come myself, just from this: Regan's hard little clit in my mouth, her moans, imagining the smooth flesh of Joshua's cock, his come spurting down my throat like liquid pearls …

I feel a hand between my legs suddenly, and as Regan comes, Zayed pries me open with his strong fingers, pulling on my clit expertly. My body explodes as Regan and I shatter together, fireworks going off behind my closed eyes. And it is as though Joshua is here with me, doing these things, as though it is him making me come like this. And in some sense it is. Always, lately. But it's too hard to think about it now.

I roll over onto my back, gasping, trying to catch my breath.

“You bitch,” Regan whispers, not unhappily.

I glance over at her, and she's grinning, her face glowing. She looks as used as I feel, but we're not done yet. Rosalyn has helped Zayed to undress, and he is climbing onto the bed, leaning against the pillows. And we all descend upon him and his poor, half-hard cock. But we can make him come without a full erection. We are experts, after all.

Regan takes the lead, as she so often does, taking his cock in her mouth. Rosalyn is pinching his dark nipples between her fingers, tugging and rolling them, and I go in and massage his balls with my hand.

We all whisper words of encouragement to him, and after a while Regan and I change places. I pull his cock into my mouth, which is mostly hard now and really rather pretty: all deep golden brown and finely shaped, even beneath the condom Rosalyn has put on him. I suck hard, moving in a smooth, steady motion. And again it is Joshua's cock in my mouth. And I could almost come.

Yes, come for me, Joshua …

It's really working tonight, luckily for us, and it's not long before Zayed goes rock-hard between my lips, his body stiffening all over, and he comes, all heat and thrusting need, his erection hitting the back of my throat. My eyes watering, I take it, not wanting to disappoint him.

After, we all lie on the bed together while Rosalyn goes to get a warm towel for our exhausted nobleman. And he has been noble tonight, which makes me happy.

Except for a strange sensation of emptiness. Because what I really want is for it to be Joshua Spencer lying here beside me, naked and sated.

I try to shake off the sensation, but it won't go. And I feel… sad. Sad that I can no longer be happy with this life. Sad because I know I could never be happy with Joshua—and he could never be happy with a woman like me.

Which leaves me with what?

Nothing.

I roll onto my side, hiding my face from Zayed and the other girls as they talk softly. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this feeling to go away.

I want to talk to him, see him.

No.

Yes!

This is hopeless.

“Val, I'd like some wine,” Zayed says to me.

“Of course. I'll be right back.”

I get up, naked, go into the other room to get it, and just like that I am back on duty. Simply doing my job, as I always do.

The thing is, something is different. Something is missing. Despite my endless ability to climax, despite the postorgasm buzz still moving through my body, I no longer love being here.

My stomach tightens into a hard, grasping knot and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. I find the bottle of wine, grip it in my hand until my fingers hurt.

What the fuck am I going to do now?