I took a deep breath and then hoisted the silver tray on the fingers of my right hand, carefully balancing it over my shoulder before I walked through the penthouse’s kitchen door. The champagne glasses wobbled a little, but I’d been doing this for a long time, and I knew how to properly balance a tray of champagne while I walked through a crowd.

Once in the crowd, I plastered on a smile, even though few of the people in the black-tie gala actually looked at me. That was fine: my job was to be invisible, more or less. I wore a black button-down shirt and black slacks, black shoes, my hair back in a bun.

If you get yourself noticed, you’re was doing something wrong.

That was what I always told my employees when they came in wearing anything but my very strict uniform.

A woman wearing a long, glittering green dress took a glass off of my tray, made eye contact with me, and nodded her thanks. I smiled back.

It was always nice when people acknowledged that I was human.

Across the room I could see Damien Logost, the man throwing the party, and again I felt an envious pang: why should one person be so rich and so good-looking?

Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that one led to the other — after all, when you were the heir to a shipping fortune worth billions, you had leisure time to spend in the gym — but it still just didn’t seem fair.

I made my way around the moneyed crowd, trying to keep an eye on my other employees at the same time. Usually I preferred to stay in the kitchen and oversee everything from there, make sure everything was being cooked and plated properly, run to the wine cellar if they needed something, even down to the liquor store if I’d really calculated wrong.

Today, though, one of my servers - Melanie - just hadn’t shown up. The girl was unreliable at the best of times, and to be honest, I kept her around mostly because she was gorgeous, and my clients appreciated that sort of thing.

But Melanie’s green eyes and plush lips weren’t going to keep her a job if she didn’t come to work. I had called her several times, finally firing her via voicemail and taking up the champagne tray myself.

As I walked around the room, my tray getting lighter and lighter, I was getting closer to Damien himself and his current special guest, Alessandro Ferrari.

Yes, that Ferrari. When Damien had called and asked if my company could cater a fête, he’d casually mentioned Alessandro’s last name.

He’d also casually mentioned that Alessandro was the crown prince of the tiny but wealthy country of San Berino, high in the mountains, bordered by Italy. So, really, he was Prince Alessandro.

Sometimes I, who’d grown up poor in the Bronx, wasn’t sure how she’d gotten to be somewhere like this, even if I was the help.

Then I remembered: lots of sweat, and lots of hours on my feet.

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of someone snapping his fingers at me. It was an older white man, gray haired, just starting to get jowls on his cheeks.

He glanced casually at me, then turned back to his conversation, arm still out as he snapped a few more times.

I gritted my teeth together. There was almost nothing I hated more than being snapped at like that. Yeah, I was a server, but I was still a person.

I’ve been vomited on before. I might honestly prefer that to snapping.

Still, this was my job, and I knew better than to throw a fit in the middle of a party that cost more than I took home in five years. I ground my teeth together, smiled, and walked the two remaining glasses of champagne over to the rude man.

Just before I got to him, I felt the tray on my arm suddenly lighten, another man taking away the champagne glasses, and I turned.

It was Damien, holding a glass in each hand. He nodded slightly at me, glowering, and then turned to the man who’d snapped at me.

“Aiden, we don’t snap at servers in my home,” he said. His voice was technically polite, but I had worked with him long enough, on enough events, that I could hear the rage behind it.

“They’re people, not pets.”

Then he held up his champagne glass, as if in a toast, turned around, and walked back to the group he’d been speaking to. He handed the other glass to Alessandro, who looked over and made eye contact with me.

I booked it back to the kitchen, embarrassed.

Of course it didn’t matter that Damien had stood up for me — he was the one who’d tip at the end of the night, and the one who hired me for all his many events, his gallery openings and gala dinners for charity and even these “simple little soirees,” as he called them, even though they were more expensive and complex than most weddings that I catered.

The other man, Aiden, I thought was some sort of banker, though I didn’t really know him. He wasn’t a regular at Damien’s parties, and judging by the look on Damien’s face, he wouldn’t be invited to any more of them, either.

That was enough champagne for now, I decided, and set my tray down in the kitchen. There were two bars and one more girl out there, handing out glasses — if people wanted to drink, they had more than enough opportunities.

I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up.

“You need me to plate these desserts?” I asked Stefan, my chef.

“That would be perfect,” he said.

I lost myself in the soothing rhythm of plating, wiping the plates, and then squirting sauce and brandy-infused whipped cream onto the tiny plates.

Eventually, I wasn’t furious about being snapped at any longer.

The rest of the soiree went off without a hitch, and I barely remembered it, like usual — there was so much running around, giving orders, and smiling politely at incredibly wealthy people that it all blurred together.

At some point, I knew, Damien had made a speech and talked a little bit about Alessandro. Alessandro had deferred properly, and Damien had possibly asked his wealthy friends to take up a cause.

That’s what usually happened. I suspected that Damien felt a little bad about his immense wealth, so whenever he wanted to throw a party, he came up with some cause for his equally rich friends to donate to.

I vaguely remembered something about clean drinking water in Africa, but to be honest, i’d been more concerned with a totally different cause — making my rent money.

Finally, the guests all left, except Alessandro. I was in and out of the service elevator, taking my crew’s supplies down to the van via the service elevator.

With their help, it only took around an hour, and then they could get out of there. We put the leftovers in Damien’s industrial-sized fridge, left the kitchen sparkling clean, linens all in giant bags, ready to be laundered.

At least they didn’t have to clean the other rooms. Damien had cleaning people coming the next day, he’d told me, so I shouldn’t worry about that.

I stood in the middle of the grand room, looking out the windows at the New York skyline.

Damien and Alessandro were on his enormous patio, sipping brandy and smoking cigars, chatting about something or other.

Damien saw me, standing there, surveying the scene, and waved me over.

“Go home,” I called to my employees. “Good work, everyone.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, and headed up. Through the service elevator, of course.

I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped into the cool summer night air. The patio of the penthouse overlooked Central Park, dark except for the streetlights here and there, and the other lights of the city spread out before them.

If they’d been facing a different direction, I probably could have seen my own neighborhood, far away and across a bridge.

“Yes?” I asked Damien.

“Sit for a spell,” he said. “Have some brandy. It’s very good. You deserve it. Sandro, this is Cora, the best caterer in the city.”

I sat, blushing.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Cora, this is the Crown Prince of San Berino, Alessandro Ferrari,” Damien said, already pouring the golden liquid into an empty snifter.

“Please, Damien,” the other man said. “I’m Sandro,” he said, holding out his hand to me.

He was also very good looking, I couldn’t help but notice, though I wasn’t exactly surprised. After all, he was very rich, had time to spend at the gym, allthat.

He had nearly-black hair that flopped over his forehead in a very European way, tanned skin, and light brown eyes.

Damien handed my the brandy, replaced the bottle on the table, and we all sat back against the plush outdoor furniture.

I couldn’t help but notice that Damien rested his hand on Sandro’s knee. I also noticed that Sandro rested his own on top of it, lightly lacing his fingers through the other man’s.

I took a sip of the brandy and looked out over the city, my suspicions confirmed, finally, after all this time. Damien was what my mother would call a “confirmed bachelor,” and even though he flirted with me all the time, had never had a girlfriend or anything that I knew about.

Apparently, Alessandro, Crown Prince of San Berino, was the reason why.

“That caviar was excellent,” Sandro was saying. “On those light crackers with a drop of crême fraiche. Exquisite.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You really must tell me where you get it,” he said.

I laughed.

“That’s a professional secret,” I said.

“Oh, come on,” said Damien, smiling at me. “Just between friends?”

“I considered stealing the plate from your young man and running into the bathroom with it so I could have it all to myself,” Sandro admitted.

“That would have been a sight,” said Damien.

Sandro sighed. “I can see the gossip column now. ‘Royal grabs tray, sprints to W.C.!’”

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

I took another sip of my brandy, relaxed now that I wasn’t working any more.

“My lips aresealed,” said Sandro.

“It’s all from a Russian deli up in the Bronx,” I said. “They have this tiny little hole in the wall, and if you don’t speak Russian, they tell you they’re closed as soon as you walk in.”

Both men watched me attentively.

“My grandmother was friends with the family who owns it before she died,” I went on. “They all came here from Russia around the same time. Anyway, the stuff I get for you is technically an illegal import. I think the owner brings it back in suitcases whenever he visits his family.”

“So it’s suitcase caviar,” said Damien. “No wonder it’s so good.”

“I’ve always said the best caviar is suitcase-aged,” teased Sandro.

He took another drink of his brandy, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. I couldn’t help but admire it, my own brandy humming and warm in my stomach.

“Cora came up from nothing,” Damien said.

I blushed. Damien tended to do this after he’d had a couple of drinks. He’d start recommending my services to his friends, which I was always grateful for, but he had a tendency to really get into my life story.

“Her grandparents came here from Russia,” he went on, speaking to Sandro. “When they were what, sixteen? They settled in the Bronx, where her grandfather was a butcher and her grandmother took in the washing. Dirt poor. She was born there, her father’s a butcher also, and she worked kitchen and waitressing jobs, put herself through culinary school.”

“Wow,” said Sandro. “That’s most impressive. I can barely make a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Well, you have people who do it for you, I thought.

When I’d landed my first big job, with another incredibly wealthy household, doing their daughter’s wedding, I was furious that this girl had everything I could possibly want while I was in the kitchen, sweating over some canapés.

I got over it eventually. Life is the luck of the draw, and even if I won’t ever be fabulously wealthy, I was doing pretty well. Nothing to do but accept and enjoy it.

“Have you ever been to Russia?” Damien asked.

I shook my head.

“I’d love to go, but it’s a pretty big deal,” I said. “I’d have to take a few weeks off, for one thing, and there’s no way I can afford to just leave the company alone for a couple of weeks.”

“That’s a shame,” Sandro said. “It’s really something. I was lucky enough to take the trans-Siberian railway once, and it was a remarkable few days.”

“I’ve love to do that,” said I.

I knew I’d never get to. At least not before I retired, and that was a good thirty or thirty-five years away, if ever.

I drank the last sip of my brandy and set the snifter back on the table, then stood to go.

Both men stood as well, watching me as they did. I could sense something odd in their gaze — something that certainly wasn’t business as usual.

“Thank you for the brandy,” I said, suddenly nervous.

My eyes flicked to Sandro, standing a bit behind Damien, and I could feel them both looking at me, caressing me with their eyes.

I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling out of my depth.

“I should get going,” I said quickly.

“No need to rush,” said Damien. “I’ve got a 1998 Côte du Rhone with your name on it.”

My eyebrows went up involuntarily.

That was an expensive wine — and also supposedly a very good wine.

And Damien was going to waste it on the help?

I began to shake my head.

“I can’t—“

“Come on,” said Damien. “I want to drink it with people who will enjoy it.”

He was standing close to me, closer than he’d ever stood before. I realized he smelled clean in an expensive way — like sandalwood and linen, just hints of each, not overpowering.

Sandro put one elbow on Damien’s shoulder and leaned over him, casually.

“Let’s have some wine.”

“I have to take the van back,” I said. “I shouldn’t have another drink, I’ve got to drive.”

“I have a guest room,” said Damien.

He acted as though asking a caterer to stay the night was the most normal thing anyone could do.

“You’ve got three guest rooms,” Sandro said.

“You can take your pick,” Damien said to me.

I’m about to say yes to a billionaire party, I realized. My eyes flicked from Damien’s unfairly handsome face to Sandro’s.

A party with an actual prince, I thought.

When am I gonna get this opportunity again?

“All right, you’ve talked me into it,” I said.

I held my hands up as if to say, I surrender.

“Perfect,” Damien said, grinning. He walked back into the penthouse, through the huge living room and then into the kitchen, opening the temperature-controlled pantry that he used as a wine cellar.

Not even billions of dollars could buy a wine cellar below a building in New York, he’d told me once, not when that space was already taken up by sewers and electricity and subways.

There were some things money really couldn’t buy.

I already had the corkscrew in my hand when Damien came out, holding out my other hand for the bottle, but Damien held it away from me.

“I think not,” he said, taking the corkscrew. “You’re off work.”

He decanted it into a large, wide-bottomed glass container, swirling it around. “We’ll let that breathe for a while,” he said, and leaned against his granite countertop.

Both of them were watching me again, and when I looked back, I saw them exchange a quick glance. Nervously, I drummed my fingers on the counter and looked at the entrance to the kitchen.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Sandro. “Something we could do to kill the time.”

Damien turned his head and looked at the other man.

“What’s that?” he said, a smile in his voice.

Without missing a beat, Sandro kissed him hard on the lips, leaning into him, pushing Damien back against the counter.

I gasped, a tiny noise of surprise that echoed through the kitchen. Damien’s hand was in Sandro’s hair, his fingers grasping and pulling at the thick black tresses.

I covered my mouth with one hand as I watched the two men make out, their mouths moving against each other. They turned until their bodies were facing each other, pressed together from shoulder to knee.

Even though I tried, I couldn’t bring herself to look away, no matter how rude I felt staring. I should leave, I knew, and go somewhere else — clearly, these two men were much drunker than they’d seemed, and wanted a private moment.

But I couldn’t tear myself away. There was just something so… fascinating, so gripping about this display going on in front of me.

It was sexy, I realized.

Maybe the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, het already winding down through my core, inappropriate as it was.

That was why I couldn’t bring myself to leave.

Finally Damien pulled back from Sandro and rested their foreheads together, just for a moment.

All at once, I felt awkward. Even though I’d been explicitly invited there, I felt like I was intruding.

I muttered an excuse and turned to leave the kitchen, desperate to leave now that I’d watched this happen.

Damien caught me by the wrist. He had a strong grip, stronger that I would have thought, especially for someone who didn’t do manual labor.

“Don’t leave,” he said. “The fun’s just beginning.”

My mouth went dry. I looked from Sandro to Damien and back.

I liked the feeling of his hand on my wrist. I liked watching them kiss.

Really liked it.

“What kind of fun?” I asked, painfully aware of my Bronx accent as I said it.

Sandro grinned and grabbed my other wrist, pulling me close. He spread my fingers and kissed my palm, exactly the sort of thing I had always thought a European prince might do.

“The wine needs to breathe for a while,” he said, his accent practically dripping from his lips and onto my hand. “Let’s distract ourselves for a while.”

I felt like my spine was melting, turning into hot molten wax.

Sandro’s lips started on my hand and then worked their way to my wrist, up my arm. He pulled me toward himself as he kissed me, until at last, I was sandwiched between the two men, Sandro’s lips on my shoulder, Damien on the other side of me.

Damien put his fingers on my chin and turned my head, a little roughly, and landed his lips on my own. They were warm and soft, but insistent — enough to remind me that that Damien was a man used to getting what he wanted, including from me.

He pushed against me a little harder, just as Sandro nipped lightly at my neck with his teeth, sending a shiver down my spine.

Then Damien’s tongue swiped along my lower lip, silky but hard. I opened my mouth against his, letting his tongue inside, seeking it out with my own.

He clamped his hand firmly on the back of my head not letting me away — no chance of that. He pressed in even harder, and I could feel the pure desire inside him, not to mention the thick, hard rod pressing against my belly.

Damien wanted me, I realized — and for the first time, I realized how much he wanted my.

Delicately, with long fingers, Sandro undid the top two buttons of my black work shirt. For a moment I felt self-conscious — I was messy and probably covered in sweat and food, the end of a long night of work.

They either didn’t notice or care, though.

Damien let me go, his hand still on my head, and looked deeply into my eyes.

I’d never noticed before, but behind the polished, gentlemanly façade, there was something almost feral inside him, something wild and filled with pure animal lust.

My heart pounded, and I felt the hot desire move through my body, downward, the heat making my ache.

Sandro took me by the hips now, his mouth moving around my neck to the other side, one hand tugging on my button-down shirt, his lips moving up my neck to my jaw.

Finally, he turned my head away from Damien and kissed my hard on the lips, his own tongue asking no permission but simply plundering inside my mouth.

I could feel his huge, erection against my back, getting harder and harder, pressing its need up against me, and I moaned into his mouth.

I wanted this just as much as they did, heat flowing through my body. I’d always had a small , totally irrational crush on Damien, despite knowing it would never happen.

Sandro pulled back and chuckled, wrapping his arms hard around me and looking at Damien. I didn’t know what to do — I was panting for breath, weak-kneed.

Oh, and I’d never done anything like this before.

“C’mere,” Sandro said, and took Damien by the waistband of his pants, crushing me between them.

Now I could feel both their erections, rock-hard and thick.

I watched them kiss again, hard muscle against hard muscle.

When they broke apart both men were breathing hard.

Damien looked down at me.

“Let’s get you out of your work clothes, first thing,” he said.

Then he took each side of my shirt in one hand and pulled, hard.

Buttons flew off all over the kitchen, and I gasped.

“My shirt!” I said, dismayed. It was the only one I had with me, of course — I didn’t travel with backup shirts.

Damien just laughed.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “My god, I’ve wanted to see your body like this for ages.”

“Don’t worry about the shirt,” Sandro purred into my ear.

Then he ran his tongue along the outer shell of it, making me gasp and shudder.

Before I knew it, my ugly bra was on the floor too, next to my black work shirt, hands fondling my nipples, rolling and tweaking them, palms rubbing over them.

“How come you’re still dressed?” I gasped.

Damien grinned. His hands were on my waistband now, undoing the clasps of my pants, Sandro still caressing my breasts.

“You haven’t done anything about it,” he teased.

Then he yanked my pants open, pulling them down along with my panties. I kicked them off, just as Sandro slid one hand between my legs from behind.

His fingers probed me, finding the wet cleft between my legs, parting my lips with his hand, stroking me. I leaned against him, sighing, feeling his hardness against my back once more.

I reached in front of me for the buttons on Damien’s shirt, but he caught both my hands in one of his and pinned my wrists away.

I pretended to pout.

“No fair,” I said.

“Don’t care,” Damien said, and then pressed his lips to the tender spot just below my jaw, my hands still held by the steel of his.

Damien’s other hand slipped between my legs as well, probing between my slick folds and finding my clit, then squeezing it between two fingers.

My whole body spasmed and I bolted upright, surprised at the shock that went through my whole body.

“Oh!” I cried out.

Damien squeezed my wrists just a little harder, and I felt my knees go slightly weak. He moved his other hand again, letting his fingers move against my pleasure button, just as Sandro moved his against the slick folds of my empty, waiting channel.

I arched my back and moaned again. I wanted one of them to do something — for Sandro to put his fingers inside me, so I could feel them on that delicious spot against the front wall of my channel, for Damien to rub my clit again like he kept teasing to do.

Looking down, I could see the outline of Damien’s cock through his expensive suit pants, perfectly hard — and massive.

I bit my lip and he pinched my clit again, lightly, making me shudder with pleasure and desire.

“I want to watch you come,” he said, his face close to hers.

I looked up at him uncomprehendingly. All I could think about was how good this felt — and how I wanted more.

“I’ve wanted to see you come since the first time I hired you,” he said.

Sandro’s fingers slowly began to enter my slit, pushing through the folds at the entrance, making their way inside me. I arched my back even harder, trying to offer myself up to him.

“That’s right,” he said, smiling at me.

He began to rub me in little circles, gently at first, but then harder and harder.

“Sometimes I’ll throw a party just so I can hire you,” he said. “After you go home, I go to bed, thinking what if this time I was brave enough to proposition Cora.”

I was breathing hard, my whole body beginning to get flushed pink. The tingling heat in my pussy was threatening to take over my whole self, and it felt so good that I couldn’t even focus on what Damien was saying.

Sandro’s fingers were moving too, faster and faster, insistently rubbing against that wonderful, sensitive spot inside me. The two men seemed to have a rhythm between them, rubbing and fucking and grinding at the same time, until finally, the heat deep inside me exploded, sending a wave of pleasure jolting through my body.

I gasped and moaned, bucking hard against Sandro, still standing behind me, leaning my face into Damien as I moaned and moaned.

At last, my orgasm over, I felt limp and sweaty, gasping for air. They pulled their hands away and then, without any conversation, Damien lifted me in his arms and carried me out of the kitchen. I was too surprised and spent to even protest.

They went through the living room and dining rooms of the vast penthouse, the two huge rooms where the party had been. I was surprised at how strong Damien was, and how easily he carried me.

Finally, he took me into the bedroom, Sandro right behind them. I’d never seen the inside of it before, of course — why would I?

It was just as massive as the other parts of the penthouse, with beautiful, expansive views from floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Sandro touched a button and sheer curtains spread across them — everywhere but the massive skylight, through which I could still see the stars.

It was incredible.

As I was thinking that, Damien tossed me onto a huge bed, piled high with fluffy, perfectly white linens. I landed softly, still utterly naked.

As I watched, Sandro came up behind Damien and grabbed him, hard, wrapping his arms around the other man and unbuttoning his shirt for him, his mouth on his neck and then his collarbones, spinning him around and tearing his shirt off.

Not content to stand there, Damien was tearing off Sandro’s clothing with the same speed, shirts and cufflinks and belts and pants landing on the expensive rugs all around them.

Finally naked, I still on the bed, I watched as they made out again, pressing their bodies together hard, their erections between their taut torsos.

Damien lowered his hand, wrapping it around Sandro’s cock, stroking it hard and up down. Sandro let out a hiss through his teeth, his face no more than in inch from Damien, and he grabbed the other man’s member as well.

They did that for a moment, both growling and moaning, sounding almost animalistic, and then Sandro let go of Damien and looked at I.

“Have you recovered?” he asked, his own cock still hard in Damien’s hand.

I just nodded, not really sure what to do.

Sandro grinned and strode over to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling me toward him.

“How would you like an exotic European cock?” he growled.

Normally I would have laughed at such a ridiculous come-on, but under the circumstances, I found it wildly sexy.

I didn’t need any prompting to get on my knees in front of him, taking his big, hard cock in one had.

“This one?” I said, teasingly.

“That’s it,” he said, his hands on my sides, trying to guide my over to him. “Why don’t you try giving it a little ride?”

I didn’t need to be asked twice and straddled Sandro without a second thought, positioning the head of his cock at my wet, waiting opening, ready to slide myself down…

“Turn around,” said Damien, just as Sandro was just ready to enter me.

I didn’t want to — I just wanted to fuck this magnificent cock that Sandro had, so hard and ready for me — but Damien practically lifted me off of the other man, turning my to face him, before I could reposition myself.

Finally, I lowered myself onto Sandro, letting him fill me completely. I saw stars as I began to ride him, slowly at first and then harder and harder, totally lost to anything that wasn’t the pure, wonderful sensation of his thick cock filling my pussy.

Then Damien knelt in front of my and, before I knew what was happening, pushed my knees apart roughly and pushed his head against me.

His tongue was hot and wonderful, making I gasp with even more pleasure than I’d thought possible. He was exploring every millimeter of me, his tongue making slow, lazy circles from my slit up to my clit and back, working me into a state of frenzy before moving back down to where my pussy lips were stretched tight around Sandro’s big cock, pumping in and out of me, making me moan.

“This time,” Sandro said in my ear, “Come for me.”

He pushed me down onto his cock a little more forcefully than before, sinking himself even deeper into the girl, listening to my half-scream of pleasure when he did.

“Oh god,” I moaned, over and over. “Oh god, oh god.”

Damien’s tongue flicked back and forth just a little bit faster and Sandro fucked me just a little bit harder and then suddenly, before I knew what was happening, I was cumming hard, the ache in my cunt transforming into an explosion of pleasure, shooting jolts of it through my body. My toes curled against the comforter and my hands scrabbled at Damien’s head, the only thing that I could reach in my position.

I felt like fire was running through my veins, this sizzle of sensation that threatened to totally overwhelm me. I didn’t know how long it last, but finally, it died down to a mere hum and I opened my eyes, still gasping for air, my whole body flushed and pink.

Damien stood and then lifted me off of Sandro. I sat heavily on the edge of the bed next to him, still breathing hard, my eyes unfocused.

Almost tenderly, Damien brushed my hair off of my sweaty forehead, pushing my knees apart to stand in between them, his long, thick hardness against my belly.

“Ready for one more round?” He asked, grinning down at my.

I looked over his hard, cut body, his wide shoulders rippling with muscle. Despite having come twice, each time harder than I’d ever come before, I found myself nodding.

I did want just one more, after all.

“Yes,” I gasped, leaning back on my elbows.

Damien ran his hands down the length of my thighs, stroking and caressing them. Then he grabbed my calves, almost roughly, and yanked.

With a yelp, I landed on my back on the plush bed as Damien tugged me to the edge, my ass hanging off of it, both my legs in the air.

With one hand, he rubbed the tip of his cock against my clit, making me moan one more time.

Then, roughly, he thrust it inside me.

Damien hilted himself on the first stroke and I shouted, my hands clutching at the fluffy white bedspread, my back arching from sheer pleasure. He was deep, deep inside me, deeper than I’d ever felt anyone go.

“Oh my god, your cock feels so good,” I moaned.

Damien just growled, pulling himself halfway out and then thrusting in again, fucking me slowly.

For now.

“Fuck me,” I moaned.

This time his balls slapped against my ass as he fucked harder.

I could feel the heat and tension build up inside of me, like I was a rubber band threatening to snap. I’d never thought that something could feel this good, but I felt my entire body was tingling with pleasure.

All I could do was lie back and moan.

Then, behind Damien, I saw Sandro rubbing something on his own cock, then walk up behind the other man.

“I guess you’re the lucky Pierre tonight,” he murmured.

Damien grinned.

“This is my idea, so I guess I am,” he said, turning his head an accepting a kiss from Sandro, his thrusts into I slowing for a moment.

“You ready?” Sandro murmured.

“I’m always ready,” said Damien.

Sandro’s face changed, just for a moment, and so did Damien’s. His cock inside me stilled for a moment, as a look of pain crossed his face, quickly followed by a look of pleasure.

He growled, the noise resonating from deep inside his chest, and over his shoulder, I could see a look of near-bliss cross Sandro’s face as he pushed himself fully into Damien’s ass.

Both men groaned, and then, slowly but surely, Damien began fucking my again.

It was even better now, and I gave myself up entirely to the sheer pleasure of getting fucked hard, over and over again. An orgasm tore through, making my fingers and toes tingle, leaving me breathless, only to be followed by another and then another, like I was permanently coming, riding crest after crest.

Before long, Damien was growling and shouting, thrusting as hard as he could into me. Every time he did I could feel an echo, the force of Sandro fucking him, almost like they were both fucking me at once.

“I’m gonna come,” gasped Damien. “I can’t last like this, I’m — oh god, I’m coming.”

He grunted and growled and then a long, low moan escaped his lips. I could feel him empty himself inside me, his cock spasming again and again.

Then he went still as Sandro came in his ass, the foreign man’s face a portrait of ecstasy as he did.

Finally, we slumped onto the bed, crawling a little further up onto the pure white sheets.

There was a knock on the door, and I bolted upright. For half a second I had no idea where I was — a window box with curtains? — and then I remembered everything that had happened, and blushed.

I needed to leave, I had to get home and — someone knocked again.

“Come in,” I said, my voice raspy.

“Wine’s ready,” said Damien, sticking his head through the door. “You really fell asleep.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Thank god, thought I.

“There’s a bathrobe on that hook. Bathroom is that door there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What time is it? I should go home…”

Damien just laughed.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Stay the night. Go back in the morning. I insist.”

I wasn’t going to argue, not anymore. I took a three-minute shower then donned the bathrobe, joining the two men in the parlor, on beautiful, expensive leather couches.

The wine was delicious.

A few days later, someone knocked on the door of my one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. It was nothing fancy, but it was a miracle I could afford it, even there.

When I opened the door, a courier was standing there, a thick envelope in his hands.

“Sign here,” he said, and I did.

The envelope had my name and address on it, but no return label.

I opened it and pulled out a plane ticket to Moscow, and one back to New York. The dates were a month away and two weeks apart.

I can’t take a two-week vacation in Russia, I thought, beginning to panic. There’s hotels and travel and everything, and besides, the business won’t run itself—

There was more in the envelope: a check for more than the catering business made in three months, easily, and a note. It read:

Have a good time in Russia. Send your employees on vacation.

Damien

P.S. I’m having another little soiree about two weeks after your return. Are you available?