The private jet touches down at Dorval under a blanket of January snow. Montreal sparkles like a diamond in ice. A sleek black limo waits, leather seats warm against the chill. I sink in, André Marcus’s heavy frame filling the space. Rich. Powerful. My new playground after the ranch fiasco. Taxi? No. This is elite.
The penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton looms over the city. Doorman bows. Elevator whispers up thirty floors. Doors slide open to marble floors, crystal chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the St. Lawrence frozen solid. I drop my Louis Vuitton duffel. King bed draped in Egyptian cotton. Champagne Dom Pérignon chills in a silver bucket on obsidian counter. Pop the cork. Bubbles fizz sharp on my tongue, cold luxury sliding down.
The Privilege
I wire millions to my anonymous numbered account. Safe. Ready for more swaps. No more horses. Tonight, human heat. I dial the concierge. ‘Send Quebec’s finest. Discreet.’ She arrives in fur, raven hair cascading, emerald eyes hungry. Chantal, heiress to timber fortune. Curves hugged by cashmere. ‘Monsieur Marcus,’ she purrs, lips red as sin. We sip vintage. Her fingers trace my belly—soft, older, but loaded. Seduction hums. View of twinkling lights. We’re gods here.
Her coat drops. Lace lingerie clings. I pull her close. Skin silk against my shirt. Kisses deepen, tongues dance with champagne tang. Hands roam. She unbuttons me slow. My cock stirs, thick despite the gut. She kneels on Persian rug. Lips part. Warm wet mouth engulfs me. Sucks deep, throat flexing. I groan, grip her hair. Velvet suction pulls moans from me. She gags pretty, eyes watering up.
Bed now. I flip her. Ass high, thong ripped aside. Pussy glistens, shaved smooth. I thrust in raw. Tight heat grips. She gasps French curses. I pound hard, belly slapping. Deeper than any mare. Her walls clench, milking. Champagne spills on her back, I lick it off salty skin. Fingers dig nails into hips. She bucks wild, begging ‘Plus fort!’ Orgasms rip her—juices flood. I hammer relentless. Balls tighten. Cum erupts, flooding her depths. Pulses endless, virile roar escapes.
The Excess
She collapses, spent. I pull out, seed dripping. Jacuzzi bubbles next. Jets massage our bodies. Her head on my chest. Secrets sealed in steam. She slips away pre-dawn, NDA signed. Week blurs: foie gras at Toqué, cognac nights, more women—models, CEOs. Excess unbound. Penthouse my throne.
Morning hall, seventh day. Arm seizes. Chest explodes fire. I crumple on marble. A woman rushes—young, elegant, belly swollen under Chanel. Checks pulse. Beauty. ‘J’aimerais être à votre place…’ I think fierce.
Black veil. Wake in ambulance. Hands slim, manicured. No gut—round belly instead. Pregnant. ‘Your baby’s fine,’ paramedic says. Heart races. New body. Elite curves, heirloom wealth. Luxe life awaits. But this womb? Wild card.
