A 21st Century Courtesan

Chapter One

The costly scents of the finest imported champagne and custom-blended cologne fill my nostrils as I straddle his prone figure on the big bed. I love these beds at the Beverly Wilshire--plush and lovely, with soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Only the best for Enzo Alighieri. Including me.

Fuck me now, my Valentine, he says, his elegant, Italian-accented voice rough with desire. You know just how to do it, mi tesoro.

Ah, Enzo . . . I sigh in pleasure as I lower myself onto his erect cock.

I have always loved Enzo's cock. The skin is a deep gold, as it is all over his body, which is still fine and beautiful, no matter his age. He is strong, well muscled. And he has the stamina of a twenty-year-old. Which is the only way he manages to please his wife, his mistress, and me. And he does please me.

I squeeze the walls of my sex around his cock and he moans a little. Pleasure is swarming my system already and I smile down at him, moving my hips, grinding onto him.

Touch me, Enzo.

He reaches up and takes my breasts in his hands, plumping them, kneading them, playing my hardened nipples between his fingers.

Oh, yes . . .

I reach back and slip my hand between his thighs, caressing his balls. He loves this. He loves my every touch, to hear my panting breath, to watch me come. Oh, yes, I know exactly what he loves, what he needs. It's my job to know. And I am nothing if not a perfectionist.

He pumps up into my body, shafts of pleasure filling me, spreading, making me shiver. One of his hands has snaked down and is teasing my clit, tugging, rubbing, pinching. He knows how to make me come. After all, we've been together nearly a decade, Enzo and I. My mentor, my friend. My client.

Why is that the most important part? But I don't want to question it as his thrusting hips take on a more urgent rhythm. His breath is a panting gasp now, and I feel him tense beneath me.

Ah, just another moment, Enzo. Give it to me . . . I know you can do it.

You will be the death of me, Valentine, he says, his voice rough.

But he does it, pistoning into me, his clever fingers never leaving my throbbing clit, my swollen nipple, until I'm coming in a flood of heat onto his thick, lovely cock.

Oh, yes . . .

I throw my head back, let it wash over me. And he tenses beneath me, cries out, his hands going to my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh.

And I catch that scent I adore, the scent of arousal, the scent of come, beneath his expensive cologne. And underlying it all, the scent of money.

I learned about something called suspension of disbelief a number of years ago in one of my English lit classes. This is when a writer must make the reader buy into the unusual long enough to be drawn in and believe in the world the writer has created.

It's something like that with my line of work. Our clients must suspend their disbelief long enough to believe the girl likes it. My particular talent, if you want to call it that--my particular perversion, really--is that they don't have to do that with me. The truth is, I love it.

This is my dirty little secret. Because this is supposed to be taboo among the professionals of my world. Call girls. Prostitutes. Hooker

Valentine Day, a high-class call girl in love with her work and protege of a wealthy Italian filmmaker, is a true renaissance woman who caters to only the most powerful of men, but when a drink at the opera with an unforgettable stranger turns into more than innocent flirtation, she is forced to question her so-called perfect life. Original.

Eden Bradley has been writing since she could hold a pen in her hand. When not writing, you'll find her wandering museums, cooking, eating, shopping, and reading everything she can get her hands on. Eden lives in Southern California.