Page 23 of Their Courtesan
Chapter 6
MIGUEL
The worst part about moving half one’s life across an ocean is the logistics, and Miguel Bolivar was done with logistics.
That’s why a man had an assistant to take care of that bullshit for him. Aimee was a young French woman from Nice who had gone from potential girlfriend to personal assistant the day she found out Miguel was one ofthoseBolivars.You know, the Monegasque Bolivars.Most women jumped at the chance to sleep with – let alone date – a man like Miguel. Aimee? She was way too intimidated. Apparently, she preferred her men comfortably middle class and disinterested in taking over the world.
Worked for Miguel. He needed an assistant anyway, and Aimee had excellent references. When he told her about the move to America, she begged to come. “How far away from New York?” she asked time and again. Did she have family there? A comfortably middle class and boring boyfriend? Miguel had no idea. He didn’t particularly care, as long as she did her job.
Today, Aimee’s job was to arrange his furniture, or at least oversee the crew arranging his furniture. No matter how much he searched, Miguel could not find a furnished apartment to his standards. He ended up purchasing the place with the best view and worrying about furniture later. Now it was here, and he could stop sleeping in hotels.
“Monsieur,” Aimee said, tapping against the hardwood floors with her heels as she continued to speak in her airy French dialect. “There is more for you to sign.”
Miguel turned away from the panel of windows overlooking the river.Nice ships.Yachting was a pleasure of his back on the Mediterranean, but he never heard about it much around here. Yet there was a marinaright there,begging him to rent a vessel until he found one to buy. Didn’t someone lose their fortune? Perhaps they were looking to sell a nice yacht.
He plucked the pen out of his assistant’s hand and signed a stack of dotted lines. “You need to speak English,” he told her for the fifth time since landing in America. “If you want to be taken seriously here, you need to speak the local language. Which is a sweet bastardization all on its own.” He grinned at her.I lived in London a good many years. I know all about bastardized accents.Shit, Miguel couldn’t even tell someone what his mother tongue was. He grew up speaking English and Spanish, and learned French by the end of elementary school. His Italian could be spotty, but that was only because he never formally studied it and picked it all up by ear from living in Monaco and vacationing in Italy for extended periods of time. Once a man knew Spanish and French, the other Romance languages fell into place.
Sheepish Aimee took the papers back. “Je suis desole, Monsieur.” She caught herself. “I mean… I am sorry. Very sorry.” Poor girl’s accent was so thick she would have men – and women – lining up to sleep with her, and have no idea what to do with any of them. Miguel didn’t dare tell her that. “I will only speak English when I am in America.Oui.”
“It will be good practice.” Aimee could take notes in English like any other pro, but her speech left much to be desired. If Miguel had more time in his day, he would help her practice. As it was, her best bet was to be left to make local friends. “Is there anything else?” Half the furniture still wasn’t there, but Miguel knew it would be an all-day process. He had bought pieces from here, pieces from there… some were even being imported from his residence in Monaco so he could have those familiar comforts. He may only be spending a week or so a month in America, but a man needed what he could get.
“Only one or two things.” Aimee left the papers on the dining table and picked up a box off a chair. “I found these things in the bedroom when I was cleaning it for the movers. Sorry if it was not something I should have bothered, but you may want to go through them.”
“Very well.”
“May I take a break?”
“Certainly. You’ve earned it. Take an hour. The next set of movers isn’t due until then anyway.”
Grinning, Aimee snatched her Prada purse off another chair and announced she was going to the quaint coffee shop downstairs. Miguel was grateful to have some privacy for the first time in a few hours. Even a man who grew up in the densely populated high-rise country of Monaco valued his privacy.
He turned his attention back to the river. Clouds were rolling in. Dark, graying clouds that announced the coming of rain. The weekend forecast called for chilly rainfall. The perfect ambiance for staying home and…
And curling up with a woman, of course.
Miguel sighed. He thought about texting Aimee and asking her to bring him some coffee when she returned.It would be nice to curl up in bed for a spell.Most of his work didn’t start until Monday. His weekend was fairly free if he budgeted his time well.
Where to go? There were many sights to see, many things todo,but none of them interested him. The only practical thing he could think of was taking a tour of the marina and inquiring about a vessel. That would amuse him for a while. It would not fix the problem of an empty bed when he returned home.
He was in a new world. Many beautiful women awaited his touch, his kiss, his manner of lovemaking that they either dreaded or died for. Yet the more Miguel stood there and thought about sex, the more his mind traveled back to the other night and the woman he paid to share it with.
Judith had been an exceptional woman. Not just as a professional, but as awoman.Rare enough finding someone like her who actually enjoyed her profession. Finding one who was all overhim?It may be hard for some to believe, but not every woman wanted to deal with Miguel after discovering what he liked – and had – in the bedroom.
“I’m not afraid.”That line had surprised him. Could she see it in his eyes? His past experiences with women who were in over their heads with him? Miguel rarely had a bad time in the love department, but almost every woman was fleeting. Transient. Another beautiful lady for him to fuck, and, hopefully, pleasure.Judith had been pleasured. Thoroughly.Miguel had been with enough professionals to know the difference between faking it and the real deal. The way her inner walls had clamped around his cock… the way she wailed as he took her, fucked her into the depths of her own bed…I haven’t felt a woman like that in way too long.It must have been true, because Miguel had been thinking about Judith off and on all week.
He had his girlfriends (of the night) all over the world. Women he specifically sought out when he went to those cities, assuming they were available. There was Tay in Thailand, who charged by the ten minute interval because she wasthatefficient (and good.) Hana in Japan, who had the lightest touch and the most natural look. Svetlana in Moscow, or St. Petersburg if he called ahead of time. That woman was one of the only ones who could outdrink him, and always knew the best jokes for him to take back to his business dinners. Cathy in London had been working out of her own boudoir for decades. She was twenty years older than Miguel and still sprier than the other women he thought about.
Theresa in Rio de Janiero. Serene in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Thalia in Miami. Celeste in Paris, and Hilda in Berlin. There used to be an Agnes in Stockholm and Oslo, but she retired to get married. A shame. Miguel had really liked her. Not enough to marry her instead, buta shame.
All those women had one thing in common: they were not intimidated by him. Not by his background, his dominant personality, or his body. They all had their own ways of interacting with him, but at the end of the day, he was able to leave the bedroom and get on with his life. He only thought about them when he was making travel plans and debating how much time he would have for a roll with a delicate escort.
Judith was quickly becoming his go-to choice for the area. For some reason, he thought about herconstantly.
What was it about her? It wasn’t her experience. He saw that all over the world. It also wasn’t her looks alone, for while she was beautiful, she was par for the working girl course.A mix of Agnes and Serene.Miguel leaned against the window, sighing. Just his luck, his cock was trying to come to life. He took both him and his erection to the bedroom, which had been fitted with a king-sized bed and dresser. Not much else, though.
He didn’t need anything, anyway. Just his hand and those fond memories.
Miguel didn’t fantasize about any particular aspect of Miss Judith. That was impossible. Thinking aboutherhad him hard and eager to pleasure himself. Quickly, though. There were things to do, whatever they were.
It did not take him long, as he thought about the softness of her body around his, her gorgeous moans of orgasm, and that look ofoh my God you are fucking me so goodhe quickly brought himself to the edge and lost the ability to hold back a quick, necessary climax.
Shudders wracked his body. He smelled Judith’s perfume. Or perhaps that had been the incense she burned. Where could he get some?
After straightening himself up, Miguel unearthed the box Aimee had been talking about before she left. One of the items was a small box. A token from Judith, given to him before he left the morning after their night together. Miguel hadn’t bothered to look at it until now. Most women included a calling card and something like a handkerchief.
Judith? The devil.
Miguel pulled out a pair of used underwear. He recognized them from that night.Now that’s something.
He removed his phone from his pocket. What was the number for the Château? He had an appointment to make. His cock was already getting hard again as his fingers felt that woman’s lingerie. Damn her. She knew how to work – and to work him.
