So this was important. For better or worse, I needed to know if this was something I could handle, and more importantly, if this was something we could handle.
Beverly had asked me something, and I looked at her expectant face. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“I said it’s getting late. Are you ready to head to Montley?”
No, I want to go back home and crawl into bed and run from my insecure fears. “Sure.” I nodded. “Let’s go.”
Apparently, when you reach a certain level of god-awful money, it comes complete with a driver. A helpful accompaniment in our case, since neither of us was in a condition to drive. The man pulled up in a gray Maybach, and we bundled into the backseat, nervous anticipation causing a shot of adrenaline to shoot through my body.
“Do I need cash?” I whispered to Beverly.
“No, they won’t take any money tonight. Riley will handle payment with Brad after the fact. They know we are good for it, otherwise we wouldn’t be considered as clients.”
“And how much is this all going to cost?”
She shrugged, folding down a mirror and checking her makeup. “If you don’t want the girl to stay the night, if she is just there for a few hours ... it’ll depend a little on the girl, but probably ten, fifteen grand.”
Holy f**k. This gift just went way out of my price range. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but a five-figure sum wasn’t it. I swallowed. Beverly flipped up the mirror and glanced at me. “What’s wrong? Is it the money?”
Yes. “Not exactly ... I just wasn’t expecting ...”
She interrupted me with a wave of her hand. “Brad will pay for the girl. That will all be handled by him, and trust me, he won’t mind in the slightest. You are giving him permission, which is your present. The cost is a normal expense in his sex life. It won’t give him a second’s pause.” She patted my leg reassuringly. “Breathe, Julia. Get some life back in those beautiful cheeks. We’re almost there.”
And two minutes later, my face still pasty white, the Maybach slowed, iron gates opened, and we pulled into a cobblestone drive, the gates closing securely behind us.
The doors to the car were opened as soon as it came to a stop, white-gloved men in tuxedos opening the doors with a polite smile. They escorted us to the entrance of a three story Gothic mansion, the brick covered in ivy, oil lanterns flickering light over the brick, twin sentries of illuminations flanking the front door. The white gloves moved past, opening the doors, and we were suddenly in the foyer and asked to take a seat. They gave half-bows, heads moving All-American good looks in unison, then returned to the front, leaving us alone in the grand room.
The three-story foyer stretched before us, the arched windows along the back glowing with views of a blue pool and up-lit palms. I flexed my hands, aware of the dampness of my palms. I could see where the exorbitant fees went. The room’s dark floors, large stone columns, and fresh flower arrangements screamed high class, no condom dispensers or neon lights here. The window dressings alone had to have set someone back six figures. From somewhere, the faint scent of cigar smoke lingered. Faintly, I heard the click of heels, moving with brisk efficiency toward us. The staccato was a countdown, and I tensed in anticipation, my nerves high, second-guessing what the hell I was doing here, what I was thinking, what ...
The clicks rounded the corner, and then she stood before us.
She was gorgeous; my first introduction to The Montley House, and I was already blown away, slightly insecure at the idea that other women in this house could compare to this statuesque woman. In her late thirties, if I had to guess, the age barely settled on her, her face clear and unlined, large blue eyes intelligently assessing me through thick lashes. Her hair, blue-black tresses, was pulled back and away from her face in a casual bun that somehow seemed perfectly pulled together. A dark purple dress with velvet accents hugged her curves, and she gave Beverly a warm hug and then extended a graceful hand toward me. “Good evening. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Riley.”
I stood, shaking her hand, impressed by the firm grip and her gracious smile. “I’m Julia. Beverly has spoken very highly of you.”
She smiled. “Let’s move into the sitting room.” She held out a directional hand, and we moved into a round room containing a small seating cluster of two leather chairs and a loveseat, a large fireplace dominating the room. She gestured to the chairs, and I sat, Beverly leaning forward and gently touching my arm.
“Julia, why don’t I wait for you in the car? Then you can have privacy with Riley.”
I hesitated and nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”
She gave me a warm smile and squeezed my arm. “Take your time, I’ll catch up on my phone calls.” Then she left, and I was alone with Riley. There was a brief moment of silence, a moment where I really wanted to stand up and chase Beverly down, waving my arms dramatically and escape back to the comfort of her car.
“May I offer you anything to drink?”
“No, I am fine. Thank you.”
She leaned forward, clasping her hands together and looked into my eyes. “Why don’t I tell you a little bit about our house and how it works. We have six girls who can be reserved as singles, doubles, or triples. Our home has several rooms that you can use, or we can send the girls to a location of your choosing. If the girls leave this house, there are several security measures that come into play, so that will be something for you to consider. What kind of experience are you looking for?”
I wet my lips, considering the question. “I was hoping for a threesome scenario, a girl to join me and my fiancé. It would involve sex on her part, she and I pleasing him together, that kind of thing. Nothing involving BDSM, or anything like that.” I squeezed my hands nervously and met her eyes.
She smiled. “That is a very common request, and one that any of our girls could satisfy. What kind of man is your fiancé? Sexually, what is his style?”
I blushed, trying to find the correct words to communicate the enigma that is Brad. “Brad is ... Brad is a very dominant individual; he likes control. But in the bedroom he is very much a pleaser. He gets off on pleasing a woman, and I think he pulls a lot of his confidence from his sexual abilities.” I paused. “Does that make sense?”
“I understand what you are saying perfectly. Let me show you our book of girls.” She stood, walking to a low chest, and opening it, pulled out an embossed book. She sat down on the leather loveseat and patted the seat next to her. I moved, settling in next to her, and studied the book, curious about the girls inside.