by JR King
“Please place your bet,” the croupier announced.
I stood straighter, looked at him with a strained smiled. Bet my last thirty chips on number 10.
The crowd gasped. This was it, all in. The end. Finito. Fini.
“No more bets,” the croupier stated for the millionth time. The roulette wheel spun, the ball danced one last time before me, in this room full of elaborate frescoes and lavish surroundings. Good night, mommy, I thought.
The crowd erupted in a roar.
A jolt of electricity ran through my body.
“Ten, black,” I heard.
I stiffened at hearing it. Whoop-de-doo. The co-players at the table made a grand display of my win. I just stared at Alexander for a few seconds. He broke the silence. “You nailed the tail, baby. This, needless to say, gives me limitless bragging rights.”
I smelled his familiar, expensive cologne while someone popped a magnum of champagne. Roulette wheels were spinning everywhere, and people were cheering and laughing like they were my best friends.
“I want to fuck, Alexander,” my groggy voice pleaded.
“Told you it’s an aphrodisiac. Last drink before we sign off?”
None other than Prince Albert himself offered complementary drinks; Alexander walked me through protocol to meet royalty. I fell in behind him, admiring the harmonious décor. We went to a posh private room with frescoed ceilings, hand-woven silk tapestry adorning it. There were ever more lavish moldings in corners and medieval oil paintings exposed on the walls. Modern-age leather divans complemented winged chandeliers and antique mahogany furnishings, and porcelain and silver-and-brass statues stood among fresh flowers in crystal vases.
“Spectacular,” was all that came out of my mouth.
I can’t write much about what happened next. It’s safe to say that the rest of the evening lent itself to laughter, lots of unsuitable jokes, lots of flirting, and being teased by Alexander’s acquaintances. When we strolled to the suite after bidding farewell to everyone, I realized I was a little tipsy.
“Steady,” Alexander muttered disapprovingly.
I kept giggling merrily, holding on to his arm to steady myself.
“You’re grounded,” he glared, but with a hint of humor.
I rested my head against his arm, and began running my fingers over his bicep, playfully poking his muscles. We had fallen into comfortable silence.
I was happy, my shoes dangling from my fingertips, the hem of the dress sweeping across the floor as we entered the suite.
The living area was bathed in soft candlelight, opalescent pearls of wax anxious to witness lovers. A wreath of red rose petals lay onto the silk sheets of the king-size bed, the smell in the air subtle like cannas. As usual, Alexander was sipping a drink, whiskey, and as usual, I would taste it on his kisses. He was on the patio, his satin-lapelled jacket hanging over the back of a chair, his bow tie crooked and the top button of his shirt undone. He observed each of my movements wordlessly, raptly, as if his steady gaze was recording every motion I made.
“Don’t you want to come inside?”
“Oh, I’ll come inside.” He smiled, pulled at his bow tie, yanking it free and working the front buttons of his shirt. Eyeing the indentations his taut muscles made beneath the sleeve of his silk shirt, I began to disrobe. He moved so fast that it seemed like he blazed a path toward me. Our faces inches away, his was lit by Monaco’s glow. “Hard, and copiously.”
We made love until dawn.
*
My head was throbbing the next morning, so I stayed in bed for a while. Any plans to see the Royal Palace and visit Princess Grace’s grave went up in smoke.
“Good morning, babe,” crooned Alexander, circling around the bed. “Feeling exhausted? Well-spent?”
“My King, I’m dog-tired.” I gave my arms a long stretch and smiled at the ceiling. As I sat up, I felt the full effects of last night. Martinis and cognacs and wild sex. Every muscle was sore, every movement painful. My head was pounding. “How much, my good sir, did I waste?”
“Since you’re keeping score, you played square. The payout was over half a million dollars, Ms. Anderson.” Alexander looked hungover, too, but in a good way.
“Fair and square. I like it.”
“One sec.” Hastily, he walked out of the room and came back with a swirled red decanter. “Voilà!” The design on the glass was as intricate as it was unique, etched in a thin layer of amethyst and crystal. I let my gaze wander over the fine details. “I present to you the original Rémy Martin Black Pearl, aged in the legendary tierçons,” he explained with a flourish. “Pierre sent you a gift.”
Smiling like a shark, he disappeared beneath the covers. Soon enough, I felt a warm, wet mouth between my legs. The good life. I just lay there, silly with post orgasmic bliss for some time before I got off the bed to shower and dress.
As we strolled downstairs, a feeling of calm settled over me. Alexander slipped his arm through mine and I rested my head against his shoulder. I heard him yawn and yawned myself while we walked slowly and quietly, like old lovers.
“PDA because I won?”
He gave me a slow-casted, lazy grin. “Don’t get too used to it.” A swift flick of his finger dropped the sunglasses that were perched on my head atop my nose.
The Thermes Marins Spa was the perfect antidote for a hangover, hair-of-the-dog treatments and all. Incredibly elegant, warm sandstone lined the floors, and the spa occupied four floors and specialized in seawater therapies. Whatever therapeutical treatment you choose, just make sure you’re wearing disposable underwear or are comfortable being naked, we were told. After our couples shiatsu massage, we lined up on the side of the humongous indoor pool and got our legs wet. There were many swimmers around, and Alexander caused an unusually large volume of women to walk on our side of the pool. Even pickletits couldn’t ruin that chest. Between the prune faces and the skins looking like the texture of beef jerky, yeah, we Americans were pretty. And they probably thought we’d been under the knife.
Smoothly, I kicked off the edge of the pool, my body gliding through the highest depths of the water. I swam fast, pushing my endurance as far as possible. Repeating the process on the other side, I plunged faster, hoping to drown every bit of uncertainty I felt.
I gave myself a break after ten minutes of physical exercise. I was lying like a lazy seal on a lounger by the pool. I lay on my stomach, my torso propped up on my arms and my legs kicking playfully. Enjoyed the dry air and occasional splashes of water. I watched a frosted-blonde bimbo bend at the waist and wring the water out of her hair. She was being drooled over by most of the men, making a grand show by arching her spine and throwing her head back as she climbed the ladder out of the pool. Thank God Alexander wasn’t one of them. He was stretched out on the lounger beside me, his head propped on one hand while the other one stroked up and down my spine.
He asked, “Wanna see the beach?”
“Please.” I sat up and slid my legs off the lounger, tying my sarong around my hips before I stood. Under the cover-up, I wore a racy red torsolette bikini. My hair was still a little damp from the quick swim and pinned atop my head with a lobster clip. By the time we went down, it was almost noon. The sun was high and brutally hot, the air clear and salty, the sky cloudless. The scorching warmth felt good on my skin. Several massive trees set in flower planters dotted the space, their branches swaying in the thick breeze. Large white cabana beds stretched along the edges of the private beach, and the shade came from rows of raised parasols, casting everything in a warm, flickering glow. There were your striped canvas beach cabins, your exclusive tents, and your solariums. My gaze raked the loungers and cabanas through the purple tint of my sunglasses. The area was packed with guests, many of whom were attractive enough to warrant second and third looks. One couple in particular caught my eye, because they reminded me of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The man’s tattersall club shorts meshed well with the woman’s Gucci bikini. She caught me staring
and lowered her sunglasses to her nose tip to allow her eyes to invade my privacy, just like I’d invaded hers. She appeared to be kind, smiled at me, so I smiled back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Alexander actually laughed like a brain-damaged chimp when he said this.
“What now?”
“Come. Follow me.”
We veered through the tiled pathways in companionable silence, which was sometimes interrupted by the call of a bird. Oleaster wept a sweet scent into the air. One of the pine wood bungalows had been booked under his name. Misters attached to the ceiling cooled my skin and lured me into prostrating myself on a lounger. Alexander wore black trunks and aviator shades, sunbathing and reading a book on the lounger beside me. Seeking his attention, I huffed rather loudly.
“You want to swap?” he chuckled. “Is that it?”
“Is that what guests do? So many countries, so many customs.”
For one reason or the other, that made him spell the word swap before saying, “Ah! Les belles Américaines,” in a cartoonish French accent that made me snicker.
I rolled around like a roly-poly. “What’s so funny? What are you reading, funny man?”
“Freedom. Jonathan Franz.”
“I can see that. Is it good? Is it hot? French-kissing? Bildungsroman with a ménage à trois?”
“Incredibly hot roman à clef. The author gives us a romanticized version of how he fucked his way through life. I’m fighting the wood here.”
I’d picked up a BDSM-themed erotic romance that just came out. A page-turner, and its playroom scenes were fun, but I quickly got bored waiting for the heroine to get some education and self-esteem or grow a spine.
“You know you’re reading the literary equivalent of Ebola,” Alexander told me. “Tasteless drivel.”
“Did you expect me to read Tolstoy or Nabokov?”
“Why not Ian Banks? He’s British.”
“Scottish.”
“To-may-to; to-mah-to.” I closed the book.
Together, we loafed the remaining minutes of the morning away on a daybed swing. On this occasion, I was doing all the work to swing our bench.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at Alexander. Haloed by the sun, he looked peaceful. A salacious curl indented the corners of his mouth, and arrogant, furious wisdom aged the corners of his shuttered eyes. Faint lines on his forehead made me wonder what—or whom—he was dreaming of. My fingertips skittered lightly up and down his cheek. The minutes ticked by. I enjoyed listening to his rhythmic breathing.
I eased my head back down to the pillow and sighed contentedly, making an occasional cooing sound. Of course, the barest of peeps didn’t snap him out of his daydream.
“Alex?” His breathing changed, and his jaw moved. I leaned my chin on clasped hands and said, “I’m hungry.”
One eye opened, uncovering the pastel grey within, then the other. They both closed again. Lifting his left arm to his face, he opened them to look at his watch, then said, “I’m horny.”
“It’s settled, then. Lunch.”
“Since when are you the boss, kitten?”
“Since I won big.” I finished with a d’oh in that Homer Simpson way.
He gestured at a hovering waiter to let him know we were ready to order now. Definitely, he caught me off guard when he told the young man to contact Joël Robuchon’s restaurant at Hôtel Métropole. “Tell them in thirty minutes, please.”
“Hair brushing, Alex! I look like Bozo the Clown’s sister! I need a hair brushing!” I practically ran back to our room.
Play the hand you’re dealt. Had he not helped me dry my hair, I wouldn’t have made it. Approximately thirty minutes later, the handsome devil was ordering a bottle of the house’s Bruno Paillard champagne, his stoic gravitas commanding the entire waitstaff’s attention.
“We’ll keep it light,” he shot at me. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to taste?”
The menu had a collection of inventive small plates with the option of a fleshier main course. Feeling intimidated, I told him, “I’ll have what you’re having.”
I would have been more comfortable in less grand surroundings and obvious formality; the room was expensively upholstered and draped in classic French tapestry. To watch Alexander greet the occasional acquaintance and introduce me was intimidating. Here’s a fun fact: celebrities, politicians, and business moguls who in their own lairs strut around barking orders to their minions became as cowed and discomfited as chastened submissives in his presence.
The bread arrived on a glossy cart, and the tiny portions we were served tasted otherworldly good, but also, they were too expensive to swallow without feeling guilty. Regardless, I ate and let the alcohol loosen my conscience, accepting this place for what it was, the epitome of French cuisine in an opulent setting and with a professional service that bordered on the miraculous. There was a balletic aspect to the effortless coordination of the simple meal. Everything was so perfect, every morsel delicious, each plate a work of art, the ingredients the finest imaginable. Alexander—barely lightened up, even with the wine pairing—ordered a special cuvée for dessert, which he let me choose from a cart. Dominance aside, I was truly enjoying his company. He was coming out of his shell more and more as the vacation traveled on.
After the one-of-a-kind lunch, I went back to the suite. The sun was still beating down. Alexander had some business meeting or other. Sophia and Christopher were also jetsetting in the South of France and Monaco, and while she was getting her nails done he brought me chocolates by Pascal Caffet, a World Champion chocolatier. Not kidding, such a thing exists.
I asked, “What would you like to drink?”
“Surprise me.”
“How about a three fingers of Rémy Martin Black Pearl?” I kept my voice light and casual.
“What?”
His surprised reaction pleased me. I turned toward him, holding the bottle Pierre had gifted me. “I broke the bank,” I explained coyly.
“Roulette?”
I nodded gracefully.
“Fucking Christ.” Dull-eyed, he slumped down onto the white sofa.
I smiled contentedly. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“That I could.”
I carried the bottle and two glasses over and set them down on the low table between us.
He looked over seriously at me. “You know, I think this may well be the most expensive non date I’ve ever had.”
“Did you kiss a lot of princesses before marrying your frog?”
“I was a woman-eater. Turners are manwhores, we love women.”
“Tell me about it,” I sighed.
“He loves you, there’s nothing to worry about. He always keeps his word.”
Of all the highly esteemed Turners, Alexander exhibited eccentricity of a different stripe. One of the most private persons, if not the most private person, living in the public eye. Cloaked in a veil of mystery, he’d cultivated a certain mystique about him, or rather, the notion of him. That’s not to say that there were no common traits among the Turner men, I’d noticed a few. The most obvious one was dominance.
“Why me, sir? He can have…rich French heiresses and Italian princesses.”
“You’re rich too, sweetheart. Gotta sign those papers. Have you given my proposal some thought?”
My answer was a petulant, sun-fevered whine: “I haven’t made up my mind yet.” The last thing I wanted to think about is that cursed safe deposit box in Zürich.
“What’s your favorite gelato flavor?” He got up and bee-lined for the phone on the console table.
“I loveee gelato. Haven’t really met one I didn’t like.”
In between manic interjections and jittery banter, we sampled gelatos and cognac on the terrace. I was sun-drenched and intoxicated and giddy.
When Alexander arrived, sunglasses hiked up on the top of his head, there was a playful strut in his stride that I’d never seen before. �
�Hey Lucy, I’m home.” I surmised his business meeting went well.
Without thinking, I got up and hugged him. I let out a little squeak because he squeezed me too hard, and he lessened his hold a bit. He didn’t let me go. Pulled me closer for a kiss. Then our lips were fused together, playing with one another, fucking each other’s mouths as our hands slithered across our bodies.
Christopher made a loud noise in his throat, and we let go of each other. “Dinner this evening?” he proposed, getting on his feet. His broad smile deepened the sun-creased lines splaying from the corners of his eyes.
“Yes,” I rushed to answer. I couldn’t refuse a peerless chance like this one; the perfect occasion to flirt with Christopher in a luxurious, palatial setting while Sophia watches in chagrin.
“Get ready for the ride of a lifetime,” Christopher winked at me before stalking off to the inside. “Laters, baby.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I yelled after him. I appreciated Christopher’s visit. I’d been struggling to accept that Alexander had essentially planned this trip for me.
“Laters?” Alexander pressed on, the faintest tinge of mockery in his voice. He sat cross-legged on a chaise longue, and I sat in his lap with my head on his chest.
Nestling snugly in his arms, I tucked my face into the crook of his neck. “It’s à la mode.”
The hand on my head glided down my forehead, my temple, curling around an ear. When his fingertips found my mouth, they trailed over the seam between my lips, and automatically I parted them. His forefinger dipped deep. I sucked on it a little.
“Are you trying to get fucked? Because you’re really doing a great job, greedy pet.” With my hair tangled in his fingers, he tugged me into a long, languid kiss.
I would have said yes if he asked me to marry him right now. He didn’t, which was a good thing because one minute we were happy, and the next…we weren’t.
Elena Anderson
The Louis XV
When I was seventeen—almost eighteen, before grandpa dropped me off in California, he flew me to Paris just so we could eat at L’Ambroisie. Located in the famed Le Marais district, it was cloistered exactly like a secret temple in the quiet arcades of the Place des Vosges, reeking of Illuminati. At that time, it was one of the most expensive restaurants in the city of light, and an underground cult for the extremely wealthy and their old-fangled ways. Don’t be mistaken, that’s not why grandpa had booked a table there. Certainly, it’s still one of the best-looking restaurants I’d ever eaten in, but also the scariest. And that’s what grandpa wanted to convey through culinary language: a thing of beauty turning into bleak, holocaustic horror.