Besotted
Besotted
Georgia Le Carre
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Besotted
(Book 3 of The Billionaire Banker series)
Published by Georgia Le Carre
Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN:
978-0-9928249-4-5
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The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the street.
John D. Rockefeller
Table of Contents
Blake Law Barrington
April, 2014
T
he knock on the Lanesborough Suite’s door is firm and unhesitant. I glance at my watch. Very punctual. I like that. I open the door and… My, my, she is a beauty: waist-length, straight blonde hair, gorgeous big eyes. And scarlet lips. Lana almost never colors her lips so red. A pity. She is wearing a long, white coat belted at the waist and really, really high heels. They remind me of the shoes Lana wore the first night I met her.
She is chewing gum, though. I hate that. She must watch too many movies about big-hearted hookers. I put my hand out, palm outstretched. For a moment she looks at me, clueless. I raise my eyebrows and she hurriedly takes the gum out of her mouth and drops it into my hand. Then she raises her own eyebrows and cheekily stretches her hand out.
‘Don’t you want to come in first?’ I ask, amused but not showing it.
‘Of course,’ she says and walks past me. Her accent is odd. She must be making it up as she goes along.
I close the door and watch her walk ahead of me. She has a good walk. I like a woman who can walk with grace. She stops in front of the low table where there is a platter of fresh fruit and a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket, and turns around to face me. For a moment I am distracted by the picture she makes standing in the agreeably English decor of traditional prints and chintzes teamed with bold choices of acid greens and Schiaparelli pinks. I put the gum on the sideboard.
‘I’m sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Rumor.’
I smile. The name suits her. She looks like a rumor. Couldn’t possibly be true.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’
She lifts one foot and lets it swing back. It is impossibly erotic. ‘I’d like to be paid first.’
I don’t react to the provocation. ‘The money is by the lamp.’
She glances at the neat pile of money as she works the two buttons on her coat. The coat lands on the sofa behind her. She is wearing a very short white dress. Wordlessly, she turns away from me and bends from the waist, so her ass is pushed out and her skirt rides up to where her smooth thighs indent and I glimpse the other thing I had specified—a freshly waxed pussy. The lips are already swollen and reddened, and as I watch moisture starts to gather.
Immediately I am hard as hell.
Slowly, holding that position, she counts the money. The desire to ram her while she is counting her money is strong, but I resist. She puts the last note on top of the pile she has counted, and turns to face me.
‘All there?’
‘Yeah,’ she says slowly, her acquired accent undergoing another change. ‘All there.’
I move towards her and put my hand between her legs. Obligingly, she parts them and my fingers start to play with the soaking flesh.
‘So Rumor, what shall we do with you?’
‘Mr. Barrington—’
‘Blake,’ I say persuasively, as I continue to explore the silky, wet folds.
She takes a steadying breath. ‘Blake, we can do anything you want to do, so long as you remember anything kinky is extra.’
‘What kind of kinky things are on offer?’ I plunge my middle finger into her.
She gasps and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. I watch with amusement.
‘You’re the customer. Tell me what kinky things you want and I’ll do them.’
‘Have you been on many callouts?’
‘Not really. Just one other time.’
‘Tell me—what did he do to you?’
‘He fucked me really hard.’
‘How hard?’
‘So hard I was too sore to go to my next appointment.’
‘Have you got another appointment after this?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
She turns around, lifts the heavy curtain of golden hair and offers me her zip. I pull it down and she wriggles out of her dress. It falls on the pink carpet. I run my hand along the nude flesh. She shivers. I turn her around to face me. Her body is very beautiful and her pupils are so dilated that her irises are almost black. I lift her up—she is as light as a feather—and carry her into the lavish, blue bedroom. I lay her down gently on the king-sized, four-poster bed. I look down on her pale body. I have bought her. For the next hour she is mine to do anything I please with. The thought electrifies me.
‘Open your legs,’ I command.
Immediately she lifts her knees and lets them fall open so her swollen reddened sex is exposed to me. I have one hour to fuck, and that is exactly what I do. I fuck her until she is panting, her slim young body slipping against mine. Until she screams. She lies on her back, her eyes closed.
I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. It fits perfectly. ‘That was great. Thanks.’
She sits up. I watch the curve her waist and hips make and I feel like pulling her down and having her all over again, but I have an appointment in less than thirty minutes. She goes into the bathroom.
‘Don’t wash,’ I tell her.
She says nothing. Just nods.
I hear water running. By the time she comes out I am already fully dressed.
‘I’ll book you again next week,’ I tell her.
‘Sure. Arrange it with the agency.’ She seems oddly shy.
‘OK.’
‘I need to use the toilet.’
By the time I come out she is fully dressed and waiting in the sitting room.
‘Do you need a ride back? The hotel offers a complimentary chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.’
She shakes her head.
A thought. She is wearing nothing under the dress. ‘Lift your dress.’
She doesn’t appear surprised, just quietly parts her coat and lifts her dress, and exposes her sex to me. My seed is still leaking out of her. I walk up to her, gently cup her buttocks and drop to my knees. I look up at her. She is watching me curiously. Bending my head I lick her slit, puffy with engorged, glistening flesh. She moans. I could have her again if I wanted to. I pull her dress back down and walk her to the door.
‘See you then,’ she calls.
I close the door and go to stand at the triple-glazed, floor to ceiling window. It has a marvelous view of Wellington Arch. I look at my watch and I catch sight of the pile of money sitting on the low table. I pick it up and put it into my jacket pocket, then I take my mobile out, and call her.
‘You forgot your money.’
She laughs. ‘Give it to me tonight,’ she says.
‘You’re spoiling my fantasy,’ I tell her.
‘Oh yeah?’ Her voice is challenging, full of life.
‘Yeah, but nice touch—the blonde wig.’
‘Thought you might like a change.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ she says softly. I imagine her sitting in the back of the Bentley.
‘Text me when you get home.’
‘I will.’
She makes a kissing sound and then she is gone.
I look at my watch. Ten minutes left before my next appointment with the Crown Prince Muqrin Bin Abdel-Aziz of the House of Saud. I ring the twenty-hour butler service and ask them to summon housekeeping. The Head Butler, Daniel Jordan arrives in less than five minutes with three foreign-looking chambermaids in tow.
In two minutes they have put right the bed and bathroom and out of the door, smiling broadly, their tips snug inside their tight fists. Daniel discreetly removes the gum from the sideboard, and perfumes the air with attar of roses. Afterwards, he takes up his position in the dining room, which is actually my favorite part of this particular suite. Soon food arrives on trolleys and waiters start gathering in the kitchen. Laura calls—His Highness and his entourage are in the lobby and on their way up. The butler starts walking towards the door.
I shoot my cuffs.
October, 2013
We build our temples for tomorrow,
strong as we know how,
And we stand on top of the mountain,
free within ourselves.
Langston Hughes
One
Lana Bloom
W
hen I come back from the church, Blake is awake. He must have heard the car in the driveway. He is standing in the living room waiting for me. There are bluish shadows under his eyes, which make his eyes seem as if the entire sky has been boiled down and rendered in those two small points. He smiles faintly, like he does not quite know how to react to me, and my heart breaks for him. I remember reading George Orwell:
You wear a mask and your face grows to fit it.
I go up to him and lay my cheek on his chest. He has had a shower and he smells clean and fresh. Like my idea of heaven. I feel him nuzzle my hair. It is like a prayer for which there are no words, and my love increases and ripens, the way fruit does in the autumn. He will never again have to pretend to be anything he is not. Or wear his mask with me. I think of Beauty dancing in the great ballroom with Beast. I am madly in love with Beast.
‘I woke up and found you gone,’ he said. His voice is different, softer.
‘Did you think I’d run away?’
‘You can never run away from me, Lana. I would journey into the underworld to find you. You are mine.’
‘I went to church.’
‘Yes, Brian said. I thought you didn’t believe in God.’
I look up at him. He is heartbreak in a shallow basket. ‘For short there is tall, for sad there is happy. For dark there must be light. I wanted to align myself with the God of goodness. I wanted to ask his help.’