The combination of the bellboy’s voice and his tanned, muscular physique made him irresistible. The sight of his back and shoulder muscles flexing and unflexing though the tight fabric of his uniform shirt as he walked in front of me was enough to make me forget all about my troubles back home in Washington.
“Do you do anything besides work here at the resort?” I asked as innocuously as possible.
The bellboy glanced over his shoulder again and smiled. “I spent two years at the University of London, reading law,” he said. “But I ran out of tuition money when my mother passed away, so I’m here working until I have enough saved to go back.”
“It must be hard to earn enough to pay for college abroad working as a bellboy,” I offered. “Do they pay you well here?”
He laughed. “I’m paid only in tips,” he explained. “Which isn’t much at all. But I’ve learned how to pick up some extra on the side.” He shot me a wink as he stopped the luggage cart in front of the entrance to my suite.
“Here we are, madam,” he said in a voice that turned my crotch to cream. “Your suite. May I have your permission to follow you inside? I can help you get settled in if you like.”
I’m sure that’s not all you can help me with, I thought silently to myself as I keyed into the suite and motioned for him to follow me in. He did.
The hot young bellboy showed me the features of my luxury suite one at a time, in a stiff, rehearsed manner that I’m sure he used with all the resort’s guests. “Here, you’ll find an assortment of luxury bath linens,” he said, pointing to a woven-wicker cabinet that leaned against the marble bathroom wall. “And here is a direct telephone connection to our room services department.” He pointed to an old-fashioned white enamel telephone with brass fittings that was mounted above the three-person Jacuzzi tub. “And here—“
I placed a gentle hand on his forearm to stop him. “That’s enough,” I said. “I’m sure I can figure out everything I need to know about the suite on my own. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself instead? Like your name, for instance.”
His forced expression relaxed instantly. “Thanks for stopping me,” he said. “I really hate doing the features tour. I’m Reginald. Reginald Toussaint.” He extended a hand, which I shook. The feel of his cappuccino skin on mine was electric.
“Very pleased to meet you, Reginald.” I kicked off my shoes and lounged on a white plush chaise lounge I found in the suite’s sitting room. “How long have you been working at the resort?”
Reginald took my cue and seated himself in the chair across from me. “Four years, on and off. I started here during my last year of A-levels, then came back summers when I was at university until my mother passed away.” A dark wave of pain passed over his face, and the corners of his eyes glistened with tears.
My heart went out to him. “I’m so sorry you lost your mother. How long has she been gone?”
He swallowed hard and struggled to regain his composure before answering. “Mum died two years ago, and I’ve been working here full-time ever since. I even live here on the resort, in the staff dormitory. I had to sell Mum’s little house in town to pay her funeral expenses.”
The poor boy. He’d obviously had a hard life, and at such a young age. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “You must have had a very hard time.”
Reginald sighed and looked at the floor. “Yes, it has been hard. I was very poor growing up, and when my mum got sick, we didn’t have enough money for her to get good treatment. But my mum always told me I could improve my lot if I just worked hard. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“I admire you, Reginald. I really do. What area of law are you hoping to pursue? I hope you’re getting into law in order to help people instead of making buckets of money lobbying for evil corporations. I work in Washington DC myself, around loads and loads of slimy lawyers who have sold their souls to oil and tobacco companies.”
Reginald brightened. “I want to be a public-interest barrister, who brings civil rights cases on behalf of the poor here in St. Lucia,” he said.
I patted him gently on the back. “Good for you, Reginald. I’m sure you’ll make a fantastic barrister who will help a lot of people in need.”
He blushed to his ears. “Thank you, ever so much. You don’t know how much that means to me,” he said.
“You’re welcome. You deserve it.How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He gave me a shy smile. “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in June.”
Good, I thought. Young and fresh as virgin snow, but still old enough to be legal if things headed the way I hoped they would. “You mentioned something about earning a little cash on the side,” I chirped, eager to change the subject. “Would you mind giving me a few details about what exactly it is you do on the side?”
Reginald leaned in closer to me and fluttered his eyelashes. “It would be a lot easier if I just showed you.”
With that, he kissed me. With tongue. Lots and lots of tongue.
I was caught totally off-guard. I of course knew he was not-so-subtly suggesting that I hire him as my own personal gigolo. I had no personal experience with sex-for-hire, but if I remembered how Richard Gere handled his transactions in that old film American Gigolo, we’d have to discuss monetary terms before any hanky-panky got started. And this bright young thing was throwing himself at me for free instead.
After a long moment, Reginald finally broke the kiss and let me up for air. “Did you like that?” he asked.
“Very much,” I replied. “You’re a sensational kisser. I can see how you could drum up some serious on-the-side business with those tongue skills of yours.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he whispered, then reached for the buttons on my blouse, which he unfastened one at a time, slowly, making each motion into a sensual dance with his lithe fingers. I watched awestruck as he deftly unbuttoned my blouse and slipped it off my shoulders with one hand, as swiftly and dexterously as a master chef cracking an egg between two fingers. He made a move to start in on my bra when I stopped him.
“Pardon me, Reginald,” I stammered, nervous as a hen in heat. I’d never had to negotiate a transaction before sex before, so I figured it was best to just be direct. “Shouldn’t we—ahem—discuss payment before we start?”
Reginald ignored me; he just went to work on the front clasp of my bra with his teeth.
I didn’t quite know what to make of that, so I burbled on. “We should probably talk about what you charge for your—ahem—services at some point, because you see, I just recently lost my job, and you can therefore appreciate my budget for certain, um, recreational activities is somewhat limited.”
Reginald continued to ignore me. With one final swish of his canines, he bit my bra open, and nudged it free of my already-heaving globes with his pointed little chin. That accomplished, he immediately transferred his attentions to my left nipple.
“Reginald, darling, I don’t know what your rates are, but if what you’re doing to my left boob right now is any example—ooooohhhhhh, that’s nice—you are probably quite expensive. And as I said before, my money is pretty tight right now—“
Reginald put an index finger to my lips. “Hush,” he breathed, then transferred his mouth from my left nipple to my right, but not before leaving a long wet trail with his tongue in-between.
“But—“
“This session is free,” he said with a sly grin. “And any future sessions you might desire, too. My usual rate is three hundred US dollars per hour, but I’ll never charge you a penny.”
“So you do work as a gigolo then?” I tried my best to sound shocked, but I only sounded aroused.
“Of course,” Reginald replied, tracing an elaborate design in wet saliva with his tongue in the valley between my breasts. “I can hardly earn enough for University of London tuition, accommodations, and plane tickets abroad lugging bags and pocketing tourist pennies. I discovered back at university that I have a talent for
satisfying women, and decided to use my position here as a marketing tool for my talents. And business has been good. I should have enough earned to pay for my remaining years at university and law school by the end of the summer.”
I stroked Reginald’s close-cropped, wooly hair and sighed. He was a sweet, generous boy. Not to mention smoking-hot. Why on earth was he doing me a sexual favor like this on nothing more than a whim? “I’m glad to hear you’ve found a way to support yourself,” I sighed, relishing the feeling of his tongue on my breast. “But if your hourly rates are so high, why are you giving me a freebie?”
Reginald looked up and caressed the side of my face. “Because in the entire two years I’ve been doing this, you are the only woman who ever showed any interest in me as a person. Most women, once they find out what I do on the side, just toss some cash in my face and expect me to take my pants off in a hurry. You actually took the time to get to know me. Which I appreciate very, very much.” He nuzzled me ear and sucked on my earlobe for a delectable moment. “And besides all that, you are very beautiful.”
Now it was my turn to blush. “No, I’m not.”
His mouth strayed lower, tracing the fine line of dewy chestnut hair that led to my nether parts with his tongue. “Yes, you are,” he whispered. “This is beautiful.” He nuzzled my soft belly with his nose. “And so is this.” His head strayed lower, until he was kissing the top of my mons through my trouser waistband. “You have a real woman’s body, curvy and soft—not an ugly bundle of sticks like so many of my other clients. Touching you is a pleasure in itself, madam. I don’t need to get paid to enjoy doing it.”He began to work the fly of my trousers, making the unbuttoning and unzipping into an elaborate ritual, then took his time sliding the rough woolen fabric of each trouser leg over my skin until the garment was off. I felt myself blush again when I remembered I hadn’t shaved my legs in a few days. But Reginald obviously didn’t mind, because he was raining kiss after kiss on my razor-stubbled left shin. His soft, wet lips slid up and down the sensitive area—I never knew the shins were an erogenous zone until now—until they came to rest on my knee. He placed one more soft kiss there, then lifted my leg higher until he had access to the soft folds of skin behind my knee joint. Once there, he darted his tongue against the thin, translucent skin behind my knee, a part of the body which apparently has way more nerve endings than you’d expect for an area that is rarely touched or noticed. The feeling of Reginald’s skilled tongue, lips, and mouth on this unusual spot was nearly as mind-blowing as if he’d been sucking on my clit.
“Mmmmmmmm,” I groaned, feeling my nether parts go all hot and bothered—they wanted in on a piece of the action, too. I’d never experienced such sensations before; if what he was doing to the back of my knee was any example, I’d go out of my mind when Reginald went to work on ground zero.
I searched through the fog of my deep arousal for the strength to speak. “You don’t even know my name, Reginald, and yet you’re treating me like the love of your life.”
“I don’t need to know your name,” he sighed into the crook of my leg. “I just need to know that you’re enjoying yourself. This is just my little way of thanking you for treating me like a person instead of as a cheap sex object.” Reginald shot me a wink and then turned his attentions toward my nether parts, still hidden away behind the soaking-wet cotton crotch of my panties—which he whisked away with one hand and then tossed across the room. They landed on the floor next to the minibar. Reginald parted my dewy folds with his fingers and gave my clit the same expert tongue bath he’d just finished giving my leg and knee.
I felt my eyes roll back in their sockets as the entire world melted around Reginald’s lapping head.
Reginald worked my clit into the kind of white-hot, tooth-melting frenzy I’d only read about in books. My hips bucked wildly, and my legs and feet kicked hard against the upholstered chaise lounge with soft little thuds. My head exploded. I saw stars. Every single cliché you’ve ever heard about mind-blowing orgasms, I experienced all at once. And just when I thought I was going to drown in a sea of pure ecstasy, Reginald sent me over the edge again—using nothing but the tip of his tongue.
After the second earth-shattering orgasm, Reginald had the good sense to let me rest. He gently closed my legs, and pulled a spare silk comforter from the closet, which he laid over my still-heaving body. The weight of the thick, satiny-smooth blanket against my skin was enough to set me to sleep.
I must have dozed for several hours, because when I came to I was alone in the room and the sun was low on the horizon. I got up and headed for the bathroom—since my bladder hadn’t been emptied since before I got off the plane—and discovered a sensual, raw soreness between my legs which told me that while my nether parts had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon’s proceedings, they still weren’t satisfied. The walls of my vag ached with the pressing need to be filled up by something long, thick and hard. A romp with my dusty old Rabbit was probably in order.
I relieved my bladder and headed back out into the suite to search my luggage for the Rabbit. To my surprise, I found my suitcase had already been unpacked; my clothes were neatly folded and tucked away in the plantation-style bureau across from the king-sized bed, my toiletries neatly arranged on the vanity table next to the picture window.But my Rabbit was nowhere to be found.
Damn it, I thought to myself as I frantically rummaged through the drawers one more time—and one more time, no Rabbit. I checked and re-checked my suitcase—no dice there, either. I racked my brain, trying to remember the steps I’d taken when I’d hastily packed my suitcase for the trip, and each time distinctly remembered packing my dusty, unused Rabbit and a fresh pack of batteries in the inside-lid pocket of my suitcase. I found the battery pack tucked inside a pair of my plain white cotton panties, but no Rabbit.
I hadn’t forgotten my Rabbit. It had been stolen.
Who the hell would want to steal my old, dusty, late-model vibrator that hadn’t been used in at least two years, and with dead batteries to boot? Something like this couldn’t happen at a worse time, when the walls of my vagina were practically in knots from lack of penis satisfaction. My middle finger wasn’t going to cut it with my nether parts in such a state. I scanned the room for something—anything—reasonably long, thick and tubular to do the job when my eyes landed on a handwritten card someone—Reginald, I assumed—had left sitting on the nightstand.
I snatched the card in my sweaty palm, and rushed over to the window for better light to read it by. The hand was deeply slanted and elegant, like copperplate, and written on the resort’s high-quality vellum stationery with an old-fashioned fountain pen.
Dear Madam:
I have taken the liberty of unpacking and arranging your things while you sleep. You will find everything in the bureau drawers, save for one thing—your marital aid. I have removed this from the room, because a woman as lovely as you should have no need for such tacky plastic contraptions that are no substitute for a skilled human touch. If ever you are in need of servicing upon your person, you need only ring the bell desk. Ask for me by name, and I will appear.
And if by chance I am unavailable, I believe that several guests have also recently checked into the resort who are themselves searching for your sensual favours. Make inquiries with the front desk staff, who will be pleased to assist you in this matter.
Yours in service,
REGINALD
I laughed softly to myself as I neatly folded the card and tucked it away in my purse for safekeeping. It was like something out of an historical romance novel—this eloquent, delicate letter handwritten with care and left for me to find after a long slumber by a man who did not wish to even know my name, but obviously cared deeply about me.
My mind raced with conflicting thoughts. At one level I felt like I was exploiting this poor young man, who was struggling to better himself in a poor Third World country by working as a male prostitute—a degrading job no matter how you sliced it. At another level, I
was both floored and flattered that this same young man would find me—a mousy, plain, somewhat overweight thirtysomething woman—sexy enough to share sexual favors with me for free when sex was the main way he earned his living.
And as I stood there in front of the vanity mirror, naked as the day I was born, another nagging feeling weighed heavily in my chest.
As much as I hated to admit it, I was burdened by thoughts of Rodney Doyle. Even though I owed the man nothing after all that had happened back in Washington, I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d betrayed him by my little mini-tryst with Reginald. How would he feel if he knew I’d cavorted with a total stranger—a male prostitute, no less—on a whim at a Caribbean resort? And how would he feel if he knew that I was arranging to meet with several Washington powerbrokers here at that same resort, hoping to use my nascent sexual talents—the very sexual talents that Rodney helped cultivate—to convince those powerbrokers to give me a leg up in Washington even though my career and reputation were ruined by scandal? Would he be jealous, like he had been over the House of Flowers affair? Would he hate me for what I’d done?
Or would he find my newfound skills at seduction irresistible?
I pounded my temples and shook my head back and forth to clear it of these disturbing thoughts. Why the hell should I care what Rodney Doyle thought about me now? That slick, slimy bastard had used and abused me. I was done with him. In fact, I’d already written him off for good back at the airport. The fact that I’d hightailed it out of Washington to a luxe Caribbean resort for the sole purpose of sexing it up with a bunch of very powerful total strangers ought to be proof enough of that.
I didn’t care a straw for Rodney Doyle, and would be perfectly happy if I never laid eyes on him again.
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 16
