Read The Parlour (VDB #1) for Free Online Page B

saintly as a woman could be with two men buried inside her, anyway.
    “You should go,” Alexander said quietly behind her as Pascal felt his cock grinding against him again. He raised a brow at the feeling and broke away from her mouth. He’d fucking stay here if that was happening again. He’d stay in this car for the rest of his life and kneel down forever for another chance at the bliss that was consuming him. She moaned again and dropped her fingers to her clit, working them over and over until her breathing came out panted and shallow. “You’ve had your prize, Pascal. Go to work.” The bastard growled. He very nearly came again, instantly. Instead, he found the man’s eyes and watched the smirk of a sadist taunting him with something he wouldn’t have again. “Go.”
    “Bastard,” he snarled, pulling out of her and watching Sir lift her and push his cock into her cunt. That was even more sadistic. The very idea that their come would be together was enough to drive him insane. “Fine,” he snapped, tucking his cock away and straightening his suit. Fucking man. Where was Ruebin? Or anything? Something was going to get a beating.
    He opened the door and tried not to listen to her fucking grunting. He’d find something else to fuck after he’d cleansed himself. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
    Maybe he’d fuck their scent away in something else. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    Having had a very nice shower and a cup of tea, I’ve actually entered the sanctuary of the walk in wardrobe. It’s filled with luxury goods, nothing that I’ve ever been able to afford before. They’re the type of clothes you find in high-end designer boutiques and the small couture shops of 5 th Avenue. I can only assume Roxanne does all the shopping, or maybe these clothes have been left here by the previous occupant. There’s not much to tell me anyone has ever been here before, but I can smell expensive perfume, and it’s not Roxanne’s, so it must belong to someone else. It’s also not the same as any of the new, unopened bottles on the dressing table.
    My fingers glide along the array of materials as I wonder what I’m going to be doing for the rest of the day. Someone’s coming to get me and take me somewhere. I’ve no idea what that might involve, apart from making me more elegant, apparently. I didn’t think I did a bad job on my own really, but I suppose if I’m entering the world of sex workers then maybe there’s a look I need to get on. What does that look like? If it’s anything like the woman I passed in the hall earlier then yes, I’m going to need to work on it. I may not be unattractive, but sultry and pouty I’m not. I’m neat, tidy, pressed, everything in place and a place for everything. Letting go of one’s abandon has never been a forte of mine.
    Dropping the towel to the floor, I search for something elegant, or more elegant than normal for me, at least. A grey shift dress catches my attention so I pull it out and go in search of shoes and a bag. Not that I have anything to put in my bag, only a small picture of my father and a few old pieces of jewellery that my mother left me, which are hidden in the lining of my small rucksack. I sold the rest. The rucksack that sits looking at me from the corner of the room only holds a few tatty old jumpers, a pair of jeans, some underwear, maybe some t shirts. Nothing at all really. My passport is tucked in the lining, too. I don’t know why I bothered to keep that. It isn’t like I was ever going to make enough money on the streets to get home, is it? Maybe one day.
    Sitting at the dressing table in the bedroom, I start the application of my make- up – precise strokes to get the eyeliner in place, feathered brushes across my lashes to create that big eye thing that ladies require, and then a slight rush of green across my lids to match the light green-grey of my eyes. Perfect. Not slutty, but not boring either. Pretty, really. I pick up the