Seduction

Seduction Read Free Page A

Book: Seduction Read Free
Author: Madame B
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my legs. I came around his dick, my pussy squeezing and releasing his dick, sucking the life out of it, smelling his spunk and sweat as he pumped me full of hot, white liquid. I shuddered as the waves of pleasure subsided. His heart was pounding, but neither of us had time to recover. Suddenly brisk and businesslike, he kissed me again, wiped my pussy clean with a hand towel, pulled my skirt back down over my hips, stroked my hair, and then, with a final slap on my ass, he shoved me out, blinking, into the narrow airplane corridor.
    Walking in a straight line after such an intense fuck was a challenge. By the time I’d slipped on my shoes and checked my makeup again, he was back in the seat next to me. As the lights dimmed for landing, he leaned in and gave me one final lingering kiss that made me melt inside. It was a kiss good-bye, a final gesture to draw a line under an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience. When he left the plane he didn’t look back, and, since he carried only a briefcase, I didn’t see him at the luggage carousel. As I waited in line for a taxi, I saw him speed past in a chauffeur-driven limousine. He didn’t see me. There goes the best sex of my life, I thought, and I don’t even know his name.
    The meeting went well. My in-flight experience had given me a new burst of confidence, and I gave a great presentation. That night, in my hotel room, I undressed, exhausted by my day. When I took off my skirt I found his business card in the pocket. Written on the back with an old-fashioned fountain pen were his mobile phone number and the details of his return flight to Edinburgh. He had also written; “Fancy an upgrade?”
    I reached for my phone and punched in his number. That’s the thing about first class; once you’ve had it, you can’t go back.

MÉNAGE À TROIS
    There’s a sexual charge to the backstreets of Paris, a smoky, after-dark sensuality that no other city can duplicate. Parisians do it better. And as this woman, a famous novelist, told me, they put on a damn good show—even when they don’t know they’re being watched.
    For most people Paris is all about the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysées. But not for me. I’ve always preferred the sleazy, faded glamour of the backstreets to the slick, polished areas where the tourists go. I love tumbledown apartment blocks, off-the-main-drag cafés, and the city’s crumbling fin de siècle decadence. There’s a romance to that kind of bohemian poverty that goes hand in hand with all the things I find sexy: good red wine; ridiculously lacy, scratchy, slutty underwear; men who always carry books around.
    But the apartment that I found myself inhabiting in Paris took my love of dilapidated grandeur to its limit. The moment I saw the building, I fell in love with it: a tall nineteenth-century art nouveau building with long windows at which balconies curved up like eyelashes. It was divided into ten different studio apartments. Other people might have minded the stained and peeling wallpaper or the chandeliers with wiring poking out at dangerous angles but not me. Ever since I can remember, I’d wanted to be a writer and live in a Parisian garret. As my landlady Mme. Philippe led me up the rickety wooden stairs to an attic room, I hummed with pleasure that I had finally achieved my dream. When she showed me the room, I adored it immediately. A cast-iron bed dominated it, and there was a tarnished Louis XIV mirror that took up the length of the whole wall. An old oak desk leaned by the window looking over the twinkling lights of the Latin Quarter. This, I decided, would be the perfect place in which to write my new book.
    I hung my few clothes in the old armoire, set up my laptop on the desk, checked a few e-mails and wrote a few notes about my surroundings. A small glass of mer lot would be tonight’s only indulgence. I was exhausted from traveling across the UK and France via Eurostar and Métro and needed to sleep. The bed might have been

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