Rochefort stumbled into the living room and sat down heavily on the sofa. The room seemed to swim before him. He knew he’d drunk far more than he should have; he’d been feeling a little low this evening and hit the whiskey hard. It was unusual for him to let his emotions rule him like this, but these last couple of days he’d been acting completely out of character.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he registered the thought that he was flying to the States tomorrow – today, in fact, he realized hazily. He had a flight to catch in a few hours and already he felt like shit. But then all thoughts were forgotten as the girl appeared in front of him – What was her name again? The hot, black one? It didn’t matter … – and held out a champagne flute for him. Her friend hovered in the background, sipping her drink and watching the pair of them.
Philippe relaxed back into the soft cushions, spreading his legs and stretching an arm along the back of the sofa. If he was lucky, these girls might put on a little floor show for him – finish what they’d started in the club. They’d been all over him in the back of the car on the way here – kissing him, kissing each other, hands groping everywhere …
‘So, Philippe, honey …’ Dionne began. She sashayed across the floor towards him and tripped over the rug, landing on the sofa beside him in a jumble of long, brown limbs. The glass she was holding tipped and the pale-yellow liquid slopped over the top where it splashed on to Philippe’s trousers.
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ she drawled, collapsing into giggles.
‘It’s … no problem …’ Philippe waved a hand dismissively. His words were slurred, and the movement was an effort.
‘Here, let me get it for you,’ Dionne offered as she pulled herself upright and leaned towards him, rubbing at his trousers. Her hands gradually slid upwards, the movements becoming slower and more controlled as her long, slim fingers stroked his crotch. She was gratified to feel the large bulge steadily uncoil until it became hard and rigid, pressed tight and straining against his zipper.
Philippe closed his eyes and groaned. It felt good, dammit.
Dionne’s eyes widened as she took in Philippe’s reaction. ‘Yeah?’ she whispered, her lips warm and wet against his ear. ‘You like that, huh? You like that, baby?’
CeCe took the lead from Dionne – they’d done this before – and the pair of them made a formidable team. She moved round to the back of the sofa behind Philippe and slipped her hands over his shoulders, running them down his chest. Her fingertips slid beneath his shirt, finding the tanned skin with its light covering of hair, feeling the taut muscles of his stomach.
‘So strong … so masculine …’ she murmured.
‘You’re so sexy, you could make a girl lose control,’ Dionne whispered huskily as she began to nuzzle his neck, gently nibbling his ear lobe. CeCe continued to stroke his chest, her hands moving downwards to where Dionne was running her long nails teasingly across his lap.
‘Ladies, I …’ Philippe began.
‘What is it, baby?’ Dionne encouraged him. In a well-practised move, she swung her leg across his lap so that she was straddling him, her face inches from his. Her skirt rucked up around her waist as she pressed her body against him. She was wearing the skimpiest of panties and he could clearly feel her, warm and ready for him, through the light material of his trousers. Involuntarily, he groaned once again.
‘Yeah …’ Dionne smiled, pleased, as she winked at CeCe before turning her attention back to Philippe. ‘Do you find me sexy, huh? Do you want me? ’Cos you are one beautiful honey of a guy …’
Philippe swallowed. He’d drunk a lot of alcohol before they’d left Bijou, and now his mouth was dry and sour tasting. He looked up to find Dionne’s magnificent breasts level with his eye line, her young, supple body writhing against his. There was no doubt about it – she’d be a wildcat in bed. But she wasn’t what he wanted. Not this evening.
‘I …’ he faltered.
‘Say it, baby,’ she whispered, her eyes half-closed as she caressed his body. CeCe was massaging his shoulders, two sets of hands caressing him, willing to administer to his every need. Philippe felt his resolve weaken.
‘Tell me you want to fuck me,’ Dionne insisted. She grabbed at his shirt, her fingers scrabbling to undo the buttons.
Blearily, Philippe tried to focus. Dionne was all over him, writhing and thrashing about. One of his buttons pinged off, rolling onto the floor and underneath the sofa.
‘Chérie,’ he began, trying to take hold of Dionne’s wrists to keep her still. But she misinterpreted this as some kind of game and began to moan even more intensely.
‘Yeah, that’s right … Do you want me?’ she demanded, her voice getting louder with every word. ‘Tell me you want me. Tell me in French – it sounds so sexy!’
The one thing Philippe was becoming increasingly certain of was that he didn’t want Dionne. In fact, he just wanted to get out of here, to get away. It had been a stupid, rash decision, coming home with these two girls who clearly had their own agenda.
Philippe tried to sit up and felt his erection wilt. Dionne felt it too and pulled away from him. For a second she faltered, then recovered her usual bravado.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ she purred. ‘That’s just a lil’ too much of the old whiskey. We can fix that in no time,’ she promised, as she began furiously rubbing away at his crotch.
Philippe was becoming increasingly irritable. Christ, did this girl ever give up? Roughly, he pushed her hand away in an aggressive gesture.
‘What is it?’ Dionne asked. She sat back uncertainly, sounding increasingly unsure of herself. ‘Do you want to see us together, is that it? You liked that, didn’t you? Before, in the club?’
She signalled for CeCe to come over as she climbed off Philippe and they took up their place on the floor in front of him. Dionne stepped out of her heels, bringing her nearer to CeCe’s height, as the two of them leaned closer, beginning with little butterfly kisses which quickly progressed to something more intense.
Dionne sneaked a sideways glance at Philippe, then raised her hands above her head as CeCe pulled off her top, the silky material sliding over her soft skin, leaving her breasts exposed.
Philippe exhaled heavily, his right knee bouncing in agitation. He knew they were doing it for his benefit, so he supposed he should pay more attention, but there was something so deliberate, so staged in their actions, that it rendered the show completely unsexy. He wasn’t remotely attracted to either of them, he realized. In fact, his overwhelming sensation was now one of boredom.
Stifling a yawn, he checked his watch – a Patek Philippe, naturally – and wondered once again just what the hell he was doing here. His plane was in four hours, and there was no way he could land in New York exhausted and hungover. It was completely unprofessional. He would leave now, grab some Paracetamol washed down with a large bottle of Badoit, then catch a few hours’ sleep on the plane before waking in time to go over the American proposals one last time before they landed.
Yeah, he needed to get out of here right now, he realized, wishing he’d listened to his first instincts in the club. The two girls were writhing around in front of him, desperate to elicit a reaction. It
