by JR King
One of the men around us—because we had a personal escort of three maître d’ type of persons—cited that Riccardo Tisci was in town. Alexander told me a possible collaboration with the Opéra de Monte Carlo was in the making. I knew Charles Garnier had designed the opera house. To knock the ball out of the park, I nodded pro forma and tried to talk importantly with that Johnsonian wit, “I absolutely love Tisci’s designs,” even though I had never worn one. With a glass in one hand and a clutch bag in another I couldn’t google his latest collection, yet. When, in French, Alexander said something to the men about Sarah Bernhardt and her role in La Dame aux Camélias at the opera, I felt insecure. It caught in my throat and clawed all the way down when I swallowed.
In practiced sashay, I entered the suite. “Wow,” I breathed. The lounge area alone was suitable for parking a car.
“Elena, come here.” What invoked the wrath of you know who was that I’d uttered a one-syllable word as though it were a two-syllable word, and that with American flair. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, but how could I? Look at this place, it looked gorgeous. “These men might be biased by existing beliefs about American girls. Airheads, junk-food lovers that look like anorexic models and such.”
“Bad habit,” I pointed out. “Won’t happen again, Alex. Please, no tiffs—not today.”
“Be careful, I won’t warn you a second time. I’ll spank you until you can’t possibly sit for a week.”
“General Grant, I will do my utmost not to bring out the un-local yokel in me.”
That earned me a, “You’re adorable.”
The Diamond suite was a double penthouse, also named after Charles Garnier. It had a sunny, seaside-inspired color palette of sky blue and yellow, pale parquet flooring, velour carpeting, vintage candelabra wall sconces, and rooted orchids in glass bowls. Alexander chose the bedroom in the front for us, directing the bellman where exactly to drop our bags. The walls were decorated with ornate plaster moldings, the closets were large, a dressing area with a vanity table beside them. I took a peek into the bathrooms. A gray marble and frosted glass and sandstone heaven, big enough for a small immigrant family. From the rich gold of the antique clockwork, the masculine accents, the rose petals beside the exclusive La Prairie vanity products and small boxes with grosgrain ribbons in the bathroom, the complimentary champagne and Michelin-starred macaroons, I fell in love with all of it. Floor-to-ceiling windows double-dutying as patio doors revealed Monaco and the pink sky beyond it. My favorite terrace to date. Definitely the icing on the cake.
Having tipped the bellmen, Alexander was already out on it, cutting quite a powerful figure as he looked at the Monte Carlo Casino located across Casino Square.
Not exactly an Indian summer, but the frugal crispness invading the air made me happy. I opened my arms, supremely showcasing myself. “Coucou, Monte Carlo!” Maybe it was the view, a half of Monaco and dramatic cliffs, or maybe it was the sight of wooden chaise longues with thick, broken-white cushions.
“Really?” A breeze carried Alexander’s dark hair off his collar.
“Yikes. Too much? Too kooky? I can be dour, too.”
He screened a call then pocketed his iPhone. “Are you happy, Elena? Happy to be here with me?”
“I think so.” I plucked at the shrubbery in the terra-cotta pots. “Is this how you put up for French girls?”
“Stop mentioning other girls! No one ever meant…fuck this!” He walked away in a limp-wristed manner, hissing, “It’ll never be good enough, will it? I will never be good enough.”
You’re so fucking dumb, Elena!
I knocked on the door before popping my head into the bathroom, and in a more serious vein, I said, “Alexander? May I come in?”
“Come in.”
Walking barefoot, I appreciated the heated tiles underfoot. “I’m sorry, Alex.”
Under the spray, his skin was soaked from the shower, gleaming taut over the aristocratically sculpted frame of his bones. His tan skin color against the grey marble was a dreadful exquisiteness. Tendrils of his sodden hair resolved into water shapes on his forehead, and when he slicked them back from it, the simple reflex made him look curiously sexy.
“Get in here. We have time for a quickie. I want to show you the wine cellar before we hit the casino.”
“We’re going gambling?” I was already removing my Vivienne Westwood georgette draped dress, my nipples wound so tightly they stung like wasp stings on my breasts.
“I’m going to gamble. If you behave, I might allow it.”
He pushed me against the wall when I stepped into the shower, squeezing my buttocks hard as he lifted me.
“It hurts. You’re hurting me,” I giggled strangely, as if I were telling him something he didn’t already know. As if he didn’t know he could stir my body to delirium.
“Yes, I am hurting you. I don’t think you want me to stop because you like it this way, don’t you? You’re pretty wet down there.” His strokes were fast and relentless. One arm was clamped around my waist, and another one was gathering my loose, damp waves of hair at my nape and turned my head to the side so he could look me in the eyes. “There, there, take it.”
*
Givenchy Haute Couture sent me a heavy embroidered nude evening gown, which had a mermaid gathered empire bodice and few golden tassels—my first Tisci dress. I donned it and watched Alexander button his shirt. He tucked it into his trousers and fastened his fly before knotting his bow tie. When he shrugged into his jacket, the ensemble by Richard James, I moved in to smoothen the finely tailored material over the equally fine man.
“Curious, baby girl?”
I laughed softly. “Like an agile bloodhound following a warm trail, sir.”
If you want to visit the world’s most magnificent cellar, you must go to Monaco. The world’s largest and most exclusive wine collection lied deep down beneath the famed Hôtel de Paris, but the establishment—under normal circumstances—didn’t grant access to the public. It was only open to royalty, some wine producers, and discerning patrons who managed to score a private tasting or event. By any means, a pirate’s bounty, many bottles dating back centuries. A treasure trove of more than 400,000 bottles of the finest wines on earth, kept in dimly lit labyrinthine catacombs hewn from alpine rock. A head cellarman with the support of a ten-man team managed its inventory, all meeting once a week to taste about a dozen wines to keep track of the maturing content. The southernmost tip of the Alps provided the perfect conditions for conserving wine: a temperature which oscillated between 11° and 13° Celsius, and a consistent humidity of 75%. Given that this reserve was worth millions, the perimeter was sealed off by top-notch security.
Because Alexander owned a lot of SBM shares, the chief sommelier had organized a little wine tasting for us.
“Monsieur Turner, Mademoiselle Anderson,” a man in a double-breasted jacket greeted us formally and held up a bottle of red wine. Alexander nodded at the bottle, and the middle-aged man uncorked it and poured half an inch up from the bottom of the glass.
“Would you like to taste, Elena?” Alexander motioned.
It’d be a pity and testament of poor decision skills on my behalf if I showed off my wine-tasting skills, the ones grandpa had taught me, since it would defeat the purpose of watching an animal in its natural habitat.
“Show me,” I retorted.
I stood back, watching entranced as he proceeded to taste. The wine in the glass was swirled expertly in the grasp of his long fingers before he lifted the glass to eye level so he could examine it closely in the thin light. Closing his eyes, he brought the glass to his nose and smelled its contents. Better said, he shamelessly sniffed it as if he were sniffing women’s panties, inhaling deeply. Quite drool-worthy.
“The moment of truth.” He drew the rim of the glass between the edges of his full, disgustingly kissable lips and tipped the wine into his mouth, holding it in a swirl for a few seconds before swallowing. He allowed me a moment or two to take in t
he sight of the wine faring downward his throat, the swallow causing his prominent Adam’s apple to twitch. Only then he opened his eyes and gave the sommelier green light to pour some Romanée-Conti for me. Knowing what he’d accomplished, Alexander grinned devilishly at me. If the theory that humans had evolved from hominids was faulty, then perhaps, after all, his ancestor had taken a rather large bite from the serpent’s apple, for the lump in his neck was a noticeable marble.
We toured the central cellar and admired small, museum-like displays of rare vintages. The Marie Blanc Museum, where the rarest vintages were stored, had prestigious bottles such as Château Bel Air Marquis d’Aligre 1850, Château Gruaud Larose 1874, Château d’Yquem 1890, Château Léonville Poyferré 1895, concealed from WWII looters by simply building a stockpile of empties. The Cellier, which housed the oldest vintages featured on the wine menus at SBM restaurants, held the most expensive bottle the group sells to guests, a Château Pétrus with a €12,000 price tag. Glass display cases safeguarded dusty bottles of the vintage used at Prince Rainier III and Princess Grace’s 20th wedding anniversary, celebrated in the cellar’s private dining room, and one of the most sought out Château Lafite-Rotschild vintages—1870—was still stacked up down here. These old wines were preserved for the memories; some were so old that they wouldn’t be drinkable today. Not just wine, the special Hôtel de Paris cognac also sat in different casks: one cask was 100 years old and the other 120 years old.
Lastly, as a welcome gift, the general manager insisted on an extensive dinner in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms, a snappy combination of drinks at Le Bar Américain and dinner at Le Grill, or a chef’s table at Le Louis XV.
Itching to gamble—I guessed, Alexander went with the first choice.
When inside the bar, my eyes skittered around to take in the revelry at hand. The refulgence of the soft lights flirted nicely with the rich wood and leather, cocktail aromas wafted right through us, and a jazz band serenaded the guests from the four corners of the world.
Celebrities who’d been here, their picture hung on the wall. I was a sucker for playfulness, and for a short moment, I was grinning like a child at the simple invention. “Alex, that’s a picture of Édith Piaf!”
“We can all read, Elena.”
I redeemed my composure accordingly. There were a few interspersed nods and titters among our entourage, my brief behavioral lack of control had entertained elitist guests. Purple potato chips, a selection of nuts, and barbajuans—bite-sized appetizers stuffed with Swiss chard, spinach, and ricotta cheese, were complementary. Prince Albert and his family sometimes frequented this bar, Alexander told me. The wine tasting and the dizzying quality of his presence were slowly getting to me. I willed myself to get a grip. I just couldn’t drag my unhelpful stare away from his hollowed cheeks and clean-shaven jaw. Feasting on the culinary ecstasy of Monaco’s signature appetizer, I found myself glancing at him out of the corner of an eye as he chewed and swallowed. His lips were drawn together, the tip of his tongue peeking out to lick them from time to time. Three. Four. Five. I counted each time his tongue came out to pick up the pastry crumbs that clung to his lips.
“Was the wine tasting spectacle that good? Baby, you should quit staring at me while I’m eating, you’re making me blush.” The sigh and the slow purr he made were the sort of noises someone would make if they were stretching in bed. Playful Alexander. I hated this side of him because it made him absolutely irresistible.
“Blush? You, Mr. I’m-the-man-on-the-sixtieth-floor?” The acid note that had crept into my tone wasn’t hard to catch.
“Your outbursts of bilious irritation are seriously fatiguing me.” For an instant, thunderclouds seemed to gather above us. I was genuinely sure I’d crossed some line. It was just paranoia, because he laughed instead of scowling. “Real men don’t blush.”
My gaze fell, and a deep flush stained my face. My manners were demonstrably awful, and Alexander—the terrible—remained gracious.
“How’s the taste? To your liking?”
“I much rather prefer the taste of your come, Elena.”
What a bastard! I blushed all the way to the end.
For dinner, we had to make our way through a scrum of socialites, and did so with the general manager in tow. I hid my manic excitement.
“Different world, isn’t it?” Alexander smiled a crooked, enigmatic smile.
Pondering the underlying sense of injustice, as if the remarkable service and harbor view weren’t enough to amaze, the highlight of the evening was when the ceiling slid open, revealing the heavens above. It was one of those hot summer days, allowing for guests to sit under a canopy of the night sky and stars.
We shared the soufflé for dessert, marveling at the beauty of it all while Alexander told me about the glamorous events he usually had to attend in Monaco. The International Circus Festival, the Rose Ball, the Spring Arts Festival, the Red Cross Gala, outdoor concerts by the Monte Carlo Philharmonic Orchestra—namely the one at the Prince’s Palace in July, the Jazz Festival organized by SBM, the Yacht Show: these were what he called the low-priority functions. High-priority were the sporting events such as the Rallye, the Rolex Tennis Masters Series, the Formula 1 Grand Prix, the Marathon, and the Sporting Summer Festival.
Call me stupid, but I imagined him at these events…a hot French girlfriend on his arm. With the press coverage, why were there no pictures of him and a French girl? A creeping feeling climbed up my spine, like I’d locked away a secret deep inside myself, something I knew to be true but chose to ignore, and now it was digging its way out.
Claudia.
A pang of grief shot through my heart, and my eyes started to sting. Feeling ice gripping my spine, I pressed my hand over my rapidly beating heart. Curious, here I thought the essential oil I’d rubbed in after the shower was supposed to relax me, but my blood tension level was exceeding two hundred beats per minute. To neaten myself up, I reached for my wine.
“What’s going on, babe?”
Nervously holding the glass stem, the liquid in my glass roiled. “Is Claudia…,”
He held up his hand to cut me off, nodding. My problems didn’t end there, however. Queasiness had wrapped itself around my stomach. “Who gave you the name?”
Eyes confiding in the stars above, I shook as I spoke, “I feel sick.”
The situation worsened. Alexander went all Florence Nightingale on me.
“I’m not leaving you out of my sight,” he announced in our suite.
“I can’t use the bathroom like this, Alex!”
“Can’t or won’t?”
I snapped my mouth closed. I never thought I’d say this, but this luxuriously appointed bathroom was too small. I turned a washbasin tap on to pee under the cover of running water. At least the plumbing could have clanged! Lifting the hem of my gown, I kept my eyes trained on the beautiful bastard. I clutched the front of my underwear, feeling the band of it dig into my behind. The scraps of ivory lace barely shielded my sex. His face stared expressionless, so I pulled it down to the top of my legs and rested on the seat. From there my bladder took over. His eyes didn’t widen with shock, or even worse—excitement, which reassured me all the more.
“Do you still feel sick? An urge to empty your stomach?” The tone of his voice was less harsh, the low and husky sound of it taken over by worry.
“It’s passed.”
“Anything else you overheard Sophia and Henrietta discussing?” he bit back, the alienness of not being in control wrinkled across his brow.
I shook my head.
“Very good.” There it was again, that low purr at the edge of his voice that made me shiver with anticipation and fear. He was smiling like a lion, as though he’d be just as happy to rip my throat out as to nuzzle against it, and damn, that shouldn’t look hot.
“Are we still going gambling, Alex?” I dried my hands on a lush towel, the suspense killing me.
I took shuddering little breaths when his fingernails scrap
ed along my jawline. He pushed my hair back with both hands—a surprisingly tender gesture—then twined his fingers in my hair. “We are. But first, Elena, I’m going to fuck you until I come.”
“Sir…that’s a cruel catch.”
“I beg your pardon?” He laughed, low and cruel. “That’s a fair catch.” Suddenly his hands were no longer gentle. Fists tightened in my hair, pulling my head back sharply, and he nipped hard at the side of my neck, making me whimper in pain and arousal. His mouth was so close to my ear that when he continued his breath tickled my skin, and I could feel his nose press against my temple. “This is for me, not for you. Do you understand?” When I failed to answer, he pulled back harder on my hair, bending my neck to tilt my head up until it became unbearably painful. “Do you understand? You can’t come.”
With a sex clenching nonstop it was hard to speak, not to mention I was trying to hold my breath in the hopes my body would stop producing secretions. Despite myself, I tried to nod, and of course all this did was cause me more pain. “Yes, sir,” I gasped out. “I understand.”
“Good girl.” The tension disappeared, and my head snapped forward, my chest heaving as I looked up at him. He met my eyes, his expression cool and assessing, all the heat and anger gone in one moment. “Take off your dress, then get on your knees in the living room, pet. Eavesdropping is ubiquitous in the animal kingdom, isn’t it?” He laughed out loud at that, leaning in to nip my lower lip. “On the rug. Wouldn’t want to bruise those pretty little knees, would we?”
He walked away, not giving me the chance to answer back.
Moments later, on my knees in the dark, face up as I stared at Monte Carlo through the open windows, I waited for…my master. On my fours, waiting for a man, isn’t what made the entire thing embarrassing; I was dripping wet.
I heard the sound of a heavy glass sliding on the table, and what sounded like a phone being set down. A jingle of a belt as he unbuckled it. Seconds passed, followed by the sound of ice clinking against a glass before settling on a hard surface. I bet he was staring at my ass right now.
