A 21st Century Courtesan Read online

  Louis's hands are on me once more, cruising over my skin, making me shiver. His fingers tease my nipples, and I lean into him, almost wishing for once that he would tug on them, pinch them. But that's not Louis. And I'm here for his pleasure. My own is secondary.

  I press down onto his cock, a little at a time. He groans, thrusts gently up into me.

  “Yes, that's good, Val, so good.”

  I'd love to really ride him hard, to fuck him like I would Enzo. I'll do it with Louis sometimes, but I know he likes these long, slow fucks the most. I force myself to keep it slow, to tease him, to tease myself. My body is full of need, my sex pulsing once more. And his fingers brushing my nipples are driving me mad; they're so damn hard. Joshua's face in my mind again, his mouth coming down to cover my nipples, pulling them in, sucking deep inside his mouth.

  Oh, yes!

  I tilt my hips, pressing a little harder on Louis's cock, a little faster. I can't handle slow anymore.

  “Ah, you're a wild one today, Val,” Louis says, but there's no admonishment in his voice.

  “I need it today,” I tell him truthfully, my words coming out between sharp, gasping breaths.

  I move faster, grinding my mound into him. He's panting now, his hands on my breasts a little rougher than usual.

  “Oh, yes, Louis. Touch me, yes …”

  He pumps up into me, his fingers brushing my nipples, and that's all it takes. I come, hard, pleasure gripping my body in long spasms. I'm moaning, gasping. And Louis tenses beneath me, groans aloud, his hips jerking.

  My climax is short and sharp, the sensation stabbing into me. When I stop shivering I look down at Louis. But all I can see behind my orgasm-glazed eyes is Joshua's face.

  Chapter Three

  AT HOME ALONE AND I don't have a date set up for tonight. You'd think my afternoon with Louis would have been enough, but no. I need more. I need to come again. Again and again. I need to know that it is these men making me come, my clients, my lovers who pay for sex.

  I need to know that Joshua Spencer has absolutely nothing to do with it.

  I have never, ever fantasized about another man while with a client. I don't have to. And I feel as if I've betrayed Louis.

  Ridiculous, I know. He is not my lover. He certainly has no delusions of faithfulness. He sees other girls besides me. Of course he does. He has enough money to do whatever he wants, and we working girls cannot have any sense of possession over our clients. And I don't. But he felt my change in mood as soon as I rolled off him; he told me later. I'd gone to the bathroom and brought a hot towel to him, slipped the condom from his softening cock, cleaned him up as I always do. He knew from my touch, somehow. I tried to tell him I was just tired. But I can't risk this happening again. My trademark, what I'm known for, what my entire career rests on, is that I'm the girl who is right there, in the moment, getting off on whatever I'm doing with my clients.

  What the hell is wrong with you, Valentine?

  It's him. Joshua. But is that really all it is?

  I hate when I get philosophical. Better for a woman like me not to ask herself too many questions.

  My mind flashes back to my very first trick. The client was your average guy. Not attractive. Not unattractive. Didn't matter. What mattered was that thrill coursing through my body, simply knowing he was paying to have sex with me. I was thrilled and just guilty enough to make it even better.

  He wasn't a very good fuck, but I came and came. I flooded the bed. I made him come twice. I could tell he was surprised. In shock. But he came back to see me once a week after that, every payday, for months. Until Enzo took me out of that place.

  I'm getting warm all over, remembering. Either I need to get up from the sofa and make myself a cup of tea, try to calm down, or I need to slip my hand between my thighs and try to get myself off. But I know how that will end. I'm disappointed enough in myself already. I get up to go put the kettle on but pull the bottle of Tanqueray out instead. The kitchen floor is cold on my bare feet, making my toes curl, but I don't care. I need to cool down. Need to do something.

  I pour a shot of the gin over ice, add a little tonic water. I lift the glass to my lips and pause, a small shudder of self-loathing rippling over my skin. Turning to the booze again. Two days in a row. But fuck it, I deserve it now and then—to feel a little sorry for myself. I'm careful enough never to let it get out of control. No, control is my thing, my modus operandi.

  I'm feeling a little out of control right now.

  That's when I remember my pretty silk evening bag is still on the console table in the hall. And in the bag is his card.

  Don't do it, Valentine.

  But I'm moving toward the hall, my half-forgotten gin and tonic in my hand. I eye the pale gold bag as though it were a poison apple. Dangerous. Tempting. I take a breath, take a sip of my drink, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. A drink for courage.

  When have I ever needed that? I've always been brave. An adventurer.

  The scent of the gin in my glass hits my nostrils, and I have one of those vague, unpleasant flashes I get sometimes, of my ugly, lonely childhood, the bars my mother would sometimes drag me into looking for my absent father. Dad and his famous disappearing acts.

  I hated those bars. It was always far too late for a kid my age to be out; she'd drag me, half asleep, from my bed. But it was there I first saw them, the women in their makeup and high-heeled shoes, beautiful to me in their false glamour. These were the women who got the attention from the men. The men were absolutely fawning over them. It was years before I understood that many of them were working girls. And even then it was as glamorous to me, as exotic, as it was dirty. But when I was really young, those places scared the hell out of me. My mother scared the hell out of me, with her sour breath and her tears.

  Fuck.

  Alright, maybe I haven't always been brave. But I don't think about those times anymore. I try not to, anyway.

  What the hell has gotten into me?

  I step forward, put my hand out, let it hover. I feel ridiculous. Yet my heart is pounding in my chest, the same way it does when you're on a roller coaster, and about to fly down that first long drop into the empty air. I am that breathless.

  Setting my drink down on the long, narrow table, I take the bag in my hand, twist the jeweled clasp open. His card sits in the red satin interior, nestled like a pearl in an oyster between a tube of lipstick and a small enameled compact.

  My fingertips flutter against the paper for a moment before pulling it from the bag. I swear I can almost hear the slide of it against the fabric. I turn it over in my hand and look at it.

  A simple business card: heavy linen paper, very fine quality. His name in raised black ink. An e-mail address. A telephone number.

  I swallow hard, my throat parched, tight. Then I remember my drink, pick it up and take a sip. Yes, better. I carry my glass and the card back to the sofa, sit down, turn the small rectangle of paper over and over. Each time I see his name my pulse races. I feel like I am twelve years old. I want to call him so badly it hurts, my chest pulling as though someone has tied it in a knot.

  He has tied me in a knot.

  Don't do it.

  Do it.

  I reach for the phone on a side table. It feels heavy in my hand, as though I am acutely aware of every single thing around me on some cellular level. The fading orange sunlight coming through the windows. The scent of the gin in my glass, sweeter to me now than it was a few moments ago. The rhythm of my own breath, which is coming a little too fast. I dial the number.

  It rings once, twice.

  Please…

  Three rings, then it stops. Shit.

  “Hello.” A statement, not a question, in his deep, lovely voice.

  “Hi. Joshua?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Valentine Day. We met last night at the opera.”

  “Valentine. Hi.” Real pleasure in his voice, and it goes through me like a warm wind, bringing gooseflesh up o
n my arms, the back of my neck.

  I am being far too romantic about this man.

  “You asked me to call.”

  “I'm glad you did. I hoped you would. How are you?”

  Ah, a little small talk. I can do this. Even if my pulse is hammering like thunder. “I'm well. And you?”

  “I'm fine. What have you been doing since the opera?”

  I almost say “working,” but I don't want to open that can of worms. “Nothing really.” I walk over to my window full of orchids, touch a fingertip to one delicate petal. It's smooth and cool. “Nothing exciting. What about you?”

  “Working. And I played hockey this morning.”

  I can imagine him in one of those bulky uniforms, flying around the ice, getting into one of those angry crushes, a pile of male bodies pressed together. And I'm getting wet.

  “Did you win?” I ask him.

  “It was just practice for a team I coach. A few of the guys in my league work out with some of the at-risk youth in the city. We figure it helps them to skate off some of their aggressions, learn to work together. No one went home with more than a few bruises; that's always a plus.” There is another brief pause and I don't know what to say, but I'm smiling to myself. He's a nice man, this Joshua Spencer. Then he says quietly, “Have dinner with me, Valentine.”

  “Oh, well…” I want to say yes. I really do. I never should have called. My stomach is a hard knot of fear and need. Fear of need. “I don't know, Joshua. I'm sorry. I know that sounds stupid. But… look, I should go. Okay? I'm sorry.”

  I start to hang up, but I hear him say, “Don't do it, Valentine. Don't hang up.”

  His voice is low, yet there is an air of total command in his tone. Maybe that's what makes me pause. I bring the phone back to my ear. “I'm here.”

  I look out the window at the last remnants of the dying sun. The top part of the sky is already dark as velvet.

  “Valentine, I want to see you. I will be a perfect gentleman. But at the risk of making a complete fool of myself, I'll tell you this: I need to see you. I don't know why. No, I don't mean that the way it sounds. Just… say you'll see me.”

  My heart is pounding harder than ever. I should hang up the phone now.

  “Alright. Yes, I'll see you.”

  “Dinner?”

  “I don't know …”

  “Drinks, then. I can come and pick you up. Or if you'd prefer, you can meet me. What about the bar at Yamashiro? Do you know it?”

  “Yes, of course. Alright. Drinks. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  But I can't do it. I need some time. To think. To breathe. To talk myself out of it.

  “Tomorrow night,” I say, not even knowing if I'll have a client. A client I will have to refuse in order to keep this date.

  I really must be losing my mind.

  “Tomorrow night,” he says. “If we're there by seven we can see the sunset. Unbelievable colors this time of year. It's beautiful from up there; you can see the whole city.”

  It is beautiful. I know this because I've been there with clients a number of times. But I've also been there with friends.

  Stop analyzing everything!

  “I'll meet you there at seven,” I tell him.

  Another pause. He's a thoughtful man. Then, “I'm really looking forward to seeing you, Valentine.”

  I nod my head, even though he can't see me. “Good night, Joshua.”

  I hang up before I say anything foolish. Before I tell him how badly I want to see him, to watch his lips as he speaks, to feel the heat of his hands on me.

  God.

  I throw back my drink in one gulp.

  What the hell have I done?

  YAMASHIRO IS AN OLD Hollywood institution. A bit old-fashioned, a place the Hollywood Old Guard frequents, but more quiet, more intimate, than any of the current hot spots. Great sushi, superb service. It's a sprawling Japanese-style structure perched on top of a hill with big banks of windows overlooking Hollywood. Below the restaurant is a meandering garden built into the hillside, a small pagoda.

  The bar has been modernized, with slick wood floors and high bar tables done in black lacquer. Very Zen. Very polished. The tall windows look into the center courtyard, where a pool filled with lilies and koi carp is surrounded by potted bonsai and iris, and a deck where patrons eat in the warm weather.

  It's empty out there now, the late September evening cool for us weather-spoiled Los Angelenos. Out of habit I've arrived early, as I always do for a client.

  He's not a client.

  A small, inexplicable thrill ripples over my skin at the thought.

  God, I'm fucked up.

  I've gone ahead and ordered a drink, one of their exotic martinis made with saki and lychee juice. Tapping my fingernails against the stem of the glass, I check out the room. There are only a few couples seated in the bar. It's early for the Hollywood crowd. Thursday evenings are party nights in this town; the real action won't begin until after ten.

  I sip my drink, carefully set it back on the small paper napkin on the sleek black table. I'm a little chilly. Or maybe it's nerves.

  Checking my watch, I see it's still early: five minutes to seven. I should have made a grand entrance, been fashionably late. But old habits die hard.

  I tap my nails against the table, notice it and make myself stop. Maybe I should go to the ladies' room, refresh my lipstick?

  “Valentine.”

  That pure pleasure in his voice again, as there was on the phone. It makes my heart pound, makes me hot all over.

  I turn and smile at him. “Hi.”

  He takes my hand, lifts it, and as I stare like some sort of idiot, he brushes his lips over my knuckles. Heat shimmers up my arm, burrows deep into my body. I'm as wet as if his mouth were between my thighs.

  Jesus. Can't even think about that now.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, smiling. Fucking gorgeous, that smile. Absolutely devastating. “Even better than I remembered.”

  I know I look good. I dressed very carefully in my black crocheted dress. It took me forever to pick my outfit, which is totally unlike me. I wanted something elegant but sexy. Short but not too short. Fitted but not too tight. I don't normally dress like a whore, anyway. I always take care with my appearance, and let's not waste any time considering ego here; this is my job. But tonight it feels nice that he noticed.

  That he noticed.

  “Thank you.” I cross my legs, an unconsciously seductive move that I am aware of only after I've done it. But my sex is aching with need already. I can hardly stand to look at him.

  He's wearing a pair of black slacks that hang perfectly on his hips, a midnight blue shirt with some tiny, subtle pattern in black. Beneath the collar I notice a narrow chain in silver, or maybe platinum. His watch is a heavy silver Rolex.

  I take in all of this in an instant. I am trained to assess a man. I like everything I see. But it's his smile that leaves me breathless, his eyes that make me yearn to touch him.

  He orders a cold bottle of the Suishin Tenjomukyu sake without looking at the menu, an excellent choice. The waitress brings it quickly, eyeing Joshua as she sets the bottle on the table, arranges his cup, his napkin. I can't blame her. He is nearly gleaming, all raw male beauty. Or perhaps that's only my own warped perception, seen through the haze of my obsession with this man.

  I shift, uncross and recross my legs.

  “I'm glad you came,” Joshua tells me.

  “So am I,” I answer, although I'm not really sure yet. What is this going to mean for me later, when I have to go home alone and frustrated? Empty.

  He leans forward, fills his cup, sips it, sets it back clown. I can't tear my gaze from his hands. They're strong-looking, with long, agile fingers. I bite my lip when he leans closer. “Tell me about yourself, Valentine.”

  “I'd rather talk about you.”

  Oh, yes, I'd rather talk about anything else but myself.

  “Not every man on the planet is e
ntirely narcissistic, you know.” He's grinning at me, a lovely, crooked grin, and I notice then that he has a small scar at the corner of his lower lip.

  I can't help but smile back at him. He is charming in some old-fashioned way, and I love it. “Maybe not. But I'd really like to know about you. I'm intrigued by a man who will indulge his mother by taking her to the opera.”

  “Ah, you think I'm a momma's boy,” he teases.

  “No, not necessarily. I think it's nice.”

  He shrugs. Wide shoulders beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. “I'm a nice guy.”

  “I'm sure you are.”

  He locks his gaze on mine. His eyes are glittering in the low lighting of the bar. “Oh, I'm not too nice,” he says, his tone full of dark promise.

  I shiver. Clear my throat. “Tell me about your family, Joshua.”

  “You can call me Josh, if you like. Most people do. Except for my family.”

  “I like Joshua. I always call people by their full names, for some reason. I get the idea you're close to your family.”

  “I am. We lost my dad about fifteen years ago, so it's just my mother and my younger sister, Lanie.”

  “I'm sorry. That must have been hard.”

  He shrugs again. “It made me grow up a little faster. I had to take over the family business. But I don't regret that part. Too many young people have no sense of responsibility these days. Turns them into slackers. The world is too easy, in some ways.” He pauses, laughs. “I sound like some old man, don't I? Some old curmudgeon bitching about today's youth.”

  “No, not at all. And I happen to agree with you. The hardest things in life teach us the most.”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes it just teaches us to be pissed off. It takes more than just the hard part to channel all that into something else.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.”

  “You should see these kids I work with. All of them from the worst parts of the city. Broken homes. Drugs. Absent parents. A lot of these boys have spent their whole lives having to fend for themselves. And when they first join the team they're out there trying not to slip on the ice and trying to bash the hell out of anyone who comes near them. But after a while, they get it. Every single one of them. Just having someone give a damn about them transforms them.” He pauses, laughs. “I'm sorry. I'll get off my soapbox.”