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felt her talons dig into his hand as she grabbed it, waiting just a second to feel if there was any resistance. Then his hand hit something cool and smooth and firm. Her skinny thighs, as tight as a man’s. He gasped with excitement. His cock hardened, he was suddenly afraid to move, afraid that anybody could pass by and see the state of him. Damn, she was a bitch. And a slut. His fingertips, squeezed so tight in her grip that the blood was cut off, were feeling her pussy now. No
    panties, and she was shaved totally smooth.
    Ernie groaned.
    ‘You’ll take your coffee exactly how I tell you to take it,’ Mira hissed.
     
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Chapter 5
    The days rolled on, and Diana was satisfied. At least, she kept telling herself that. Her little dinner parties, given with lan and verve, were the talk of the town, not least because Diana made sure to invite all the gossip columnists, flattering them shamelessly. Ernie’s business was going well, too, from the looks of things. The stock price of the company had risen after his first month in charge, and that was all she wanted or needed to know. Diana was more concerned with digging out the right - it was her new favourite phrase. There were many stylists dotted around the soaring skyscrapers, but Diana wanted to find the right one - the man with the best razor cuts to trim her long hair, to keep it glossy and perfect. The right dinner guests, the delicious mix of celebrities, socialites, big businessmen, and one or two scandal-hit divorcees, with perhaps a poverty-stricken but talented poet thrown in somewhere. She had already picked the right decorator, and with the help of her friends, she was aiming to find the right everything. From pedicurists to psychics, New York had its favourites - but, Diana thought, sighing, it was so boring to follow the crowd. As if she would be seen dead in a pashmina shawl, for example. There was a very fine line between stylish and fashion victim. Perhaps it was the incessant sameness of New York moneyed life that had her … well … restless.
    She was meeting Natasha, Jodie and Felicity at L’Urbane, the newest hot spot, run by two Frenchwomen who promised to steal all the crowds away from Bliss.
     
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    There was a three-month wait for an appointment, if you were one of the peasants. My girlfriends don’t fall into that category, Diana thought smugly. And apparently the hour-long oxygen facials would give you a complexion to die for. She studied her own smooth skin in the mirror of the solid-gold Cartier compact Ernie gave her after her last dinner party got him a great write-up in the papers. He was revelling in being a social lion, getting the kind of acceptance in the States he could never get at home. Back there, Diana thought, her husband would always be second to her. It was the quietly inflexible class system that Ernie would never be able to buck. In America, with . the right kind of press, he could make it.
    And America was all about status. Ernie drew a lot of satisfaction from it, Diana mused, why couldn’t she? She was doing everything right. So what was missing? Love? That was a fairy story girls should grow out of when they grew out of Cinderella. The best thing you could hope for was to find a guy who you got on with, who didn’t bother you overmuch, and who didn’t paw you in bed. She had no complaints about Ernie in that regard. Since the job had kicked in, he hardly ever wanted sex, and when he did, it was dutiful, fast and distasteful. Diana gritted her teeth and just prayed he would keep away from her. She’d read in Glamour that 80 per cent of women never had an orgasm. Was that true? She looked at her rich girlfriends’ husbands and thought it might be.
    Sex was for men. Sex for women was a huge myth. It was better to seek real pleasure from life, Diana told herself. She had a rich husband, a life of luxury, she was young, and beautiful, and envied, and never had to do a stroke of work. It was … she grinned to