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A valet hurried from under a gold awning to open the passenger door of Ethan’s shiny, black Lamborghini. The bat-wing doors opened straight upward automatically before he could reach the handle.
“Good evening, miss.” A man assisted Valentina from the vehicle. She felt like a movie star alighting onto the red carpet. Hundreds of bare gold lightbulbs shined brightly from the marquee down onto them, like the flash bulbs of paparazzi. It seemed like noon at midnight.
“The Langham Hotel is like the Trump Towers,” Ethan said, tossing the keys to the valet. A well-dressed doorman saluted them sharply as they crossed the mammoth vestibule. Ethan’s hand rested protectively on the small of Valentina’s back at every moment. “Most of the hotel rooms and suites are for guests. But some of the units are condos. Let’s wait here for Bastian”
A couple of minutes later, Valentina’s other master appeared in the doorway and again they each took one of her hands.
“Good evening, Mr. Daniels, Mr. DuPre,” an elevator operator greeted them formally. “Good evening, miss.” He didn’t seem at all surprised that there was an obvious intimacy between the three, and Valentina had to suppress a hint of jealousy at the thought that they’d shared women before.
In the elevator, the lift man inserted his security card to take them to the top floor, which was not marked, as if it were a secret penthouse. The elevator was nicely efficient, and they arrived at the fifty-third floor in seconds. The man held the door for them.
“The Infinity Suite.” He doffed his top hat politely.
Valentina stepped into the most lavish apartment she’d ever seen. It was easily three thousand square feet, and the foyer alone was larger than a middle-class family’s great room. Valentina had been to the Langham Hotel in London with her parents; she knew the place cost a pretty penny.
Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, one of the pioneering masters of modern architecture—second only to Frank Lloyd Wright, in Valentina’s opinion—had designed the historically registered structure, but he had died in 1969 before its completion.
“Did you know Mies van der Rohe had three mistresses when he died?” Valentina said, looking around, enchanted.
“Crazy bastard.”
“Some of the students in my class thought he died of foul play, a crime of passion,” she went on.
“Alas, he had esophageal cancer,” Bastian said.
“An easy cover for a slit throat,” she said, repeating the theory she had heard from one of her professors.
Neither of them responded.
“Is this the presidential suite?” she asked, twirling in a circle.
“Yes,” Ethan answered curtly.
Valentina could tell he wasn’t in the mood to chat about architecture at the moment. The protuberance in his pants spoke volumes about what he was in the mood for. Seeing the evidence of how she affected him awoke in her an empowering sense of female mystique.
“Does—”
“Shut up, Valentina.”
* * *
And so the game commenced anew.
Valentina’s demeanor transformed instantly. She dropped her handbag and folded her hands, staring at the floor. She shuffled her feet girlishly and pressed her knees together. Her heart raced.
Ethan moved closer to her, purposefully, like a wolf stalking its prey. He maneuvered her tantalizingly into the corner, away from the door. She backed away from him until she could move no more, then he pressed her deliberately against the wall. His whole body enveloped hers, his knees entangled with her thighs. Ethan clasped her wrists tightly and held them against the hard surface. His tall body was solid, every inch ripped with muscles, while hers was soft and yielding against his. Her body molded into his, as did her will to resist.
His lips crushed hers ardently, ravaging them.
She responded fervently to him, her mouth clinging to his. Ethan grasped her thigh roughly and ran his big hand under her dress. She moaned loudly.
He broke their kiss and demanded, “Silence.”
Biting her lip, she surrendered.
Ethan turned her around quickly, facing the wall. He pressed his entire body heavily against hers, flattening her smaller frame against the white panels. Her full breasts plastered against the wall, and her hands were trapped beneath them. Ethan pulled her skirt up like a rutting stag and pressed his dick against her backside.
Her features contorted as she struggled to drown her cries of rapture.
