Some people never discover what they are truly capable of, they may be confident that they can achieve this ambition, or boast about being able to fulfil that requirement if necessary; yet in reality most never get to experience the limit of their potential, not through any external inhibition or misfortune, but simply because they don’t have the motivation to push themselves to the boundary between what is possible and what is not.
"Madame?" An accented voice disturbed her brief introspection, Monique lifted her chin from the hand which cradled it and turned to face the speaker.
"Thank you," she answered in a prim and slightly nasal voice, flirtatiously holding eye contact for a little longer than necessary, the waiter laid her cappuccino and Danish pastry on the table before dashing across the shiny cobbles and back inside the dark interior of the cafe.
She watched as he re-emerged and glided between the tables, his tight, white shirt provided little camouflage to what she presumed was a sensationally fit body. All the indications were present, there were bulges and creases exactly where she expected them to be; his pecs strained the fabric which covered them, which was just thin enough for her to make out the shadowy outline of his nipples. Monique took coffee in that corner of Covent Garden most mornings on her way to some engagement, she flirted shamelessly with him every time he served her, yet learned little about him, other than his name was Paul and that he had moved to London from Brazil. Establishments of such calibre expected their staff to act with decorum and propriety, which was why she would patronise no other cafe in the West End, that and the fact that they served the best coffee she had tasted outside of mainland Europe.
Monique dropped a lump of rough Demerara into her cup, it sat on the froth, resisting the inevitable, before reluctantly dropping beneath the surface. She prodded the spoon inside and almost without purpose, scanned her eyes over the glass roof of Covent Garden market, revelling at the prospect of another day under the rich, blue sky; unbroken by clouds, with only the feint sharpness of vapour trails disturbing the absolute solidity of colour.
It was still early, barely nine o'clock, yet already over twenty degrees and forecasted to rise to in excess of thirty by mid-afternoon. Monique took a silver compact from her cream Hermes bag, she checked that the shading around her eyes was as she wished it to be and fingered her short, golden fringe back into position. A feint breeze grazed her bare legs as she savoured her coffee, the air felt fresh and unpolluted as it passed through the flimsy fabric of her dress; come a later hour, London would be stifled by too many people and an excess of heat. That morning differed from Monique's usual Covent Garden coffee, the caffeine was less of an indulgent aid to complete the process of waking up, and more a necessity to keep her on her feet after an energetically sleepless night.
She re-positioned her elbow on the wooden slatted table, rested her chin on top of her closed fist and dreamily reminisced the previous night's activities through her fuzzy mind; her tired body weakened even further by the recollections of her coquettish enterprise. As Jimmy's bold proposition echoed through her thoughts, Monique's slender body fluttered and fizzed, arousal and desire coursed through her almost as much as it had done the first time she had heard those words.
Monique Bobotte had been born in London, the daughter of a French businessman and an English chorus girl; she grew up in Paris, educated at Oxford and was the heiress to a fortune which she could neither calculate nor comprehend. Throughout her childhood and adolescence she had only wanted for something as long as it took for her father to ensure that her wishes were fulfilled, both parents had lavished unfettered finery and extravagance upon their only daughter. Monique encountered no difficulties in chasing and realising her adult desires, which almost exclusively involved men. The young heiress had an unquenchable addiction to the rugged sex, their look, touch, smell and mere presence caused a chemical reaction inside her which meant that she never tired of being in the company of men.
Jimmy's suggestion rattled through her body, the heat of exhilaration prompted her to finger the round neck of her fitted navy and taupe Teddy dress, she hunted absorbedly through her long, blonde hair in a quest to satisfy the slight itch on her naked back. The breeze suddenly changed direction, a nick of cool air passed over the fresh moisture between her legs, she flinched from the realisation that she was so aroused in public. Although Monique possessed an entirely liberal and progressive attitude to sexual behaviour, she had never been so aroused by a mere memory; but then again, she had never been so utterly fulfilled as she was the night before.
A little flustered, Monique sipped her coffee and took a bite of her Danish in an attempt to distract herself from the lascivious recollections of her sluttish behaviour. She looked up through her immaculate lashes at the hurrying office girls in their light summer dresses and drummed her nails against the white china cup; with her head tipped forwards and vision partially obscured by her asymmetrical fringe, she watched delivery men unload boxes from their vans, already sweating from the exertion of their work, tourists taking pictures of each other outside the opera house, and street performers staking their spaces for later. A lone soprano went through scales outside one of the restaurants in the lower section of the market, the euphonious tones floated out and around the square, the scent of roasted coffee beans, cooked breakfasts and expensive perfumes helped to cement an atmosphere which could not have been confused with any other square, in any other city.
Monique watched men saunter past the cobbled seating area, stealing a glimpse of her, keeping their eyes fixed on her mesmeric form until she looked up and met their gaze, when most dropped their eyes in mock denial, before sneaking one final look as they passed her. Some held eye contact and coaxed a smile from her full, glossy lips, she usually complied, Monique was unforgivably vain and not only craved, but sought reassurance from the never-ending male attention she received; the gesture of returning a smile was the least she could do.
"Come back to the house and let us all fuck you," he had shamelessly roared in her ear over the monotonous music of the slightly disappointing club. Her big, brown eyes glued to his face, slowly lowering the glass from her lips and postponing the sip of vodka and lemon she was about to take, she watched the corners of his eyes to see if his face was about to crack and disappointingly reveal it to be another one of his cruel jokes. He watched her too, waiting for a response; his sharp, blue eyes locked on her ponderous expression. Moments passed, he held his nerve, she spoke first.
"Yes." He affirmed, Monique squinted in curiosity. "The team."
"The team?" She questioned, with parted lips and widened eyes.
"Uh-huh," Jimmy grinned, unable to contain his self-satisfaction, his confidence was pure arrogance, but narcissism was a trait Monique admired. Without hesitation, she slid off the stool, took Jimmy's hand and lead him bullishly through the club. It was one of those swankily ostentatious places in the heart of the city, a redeveloped old bank where the basement vault had been turned into a VIP suite, deposit boxes lined the walls and the regulars were still stuffy stock brokers who perennially congratulated themselves on moving another imaginary fortune from one pot to another. She had attracted to the glances and ganders of the glass-chinking, guffawing financiers all night, and was no less conspicuous as she strode purposefully across the white marble floor, the heels of her black Zanotti stilettos dissecting the tedious drone of experimental house music. Monique's hair swayed and swelled with her walk as though it were orchestrated by Chopin, the many shades of blonde contrasted beautifully against the black chiffon of her summer dress.
The doormen scrambled to bid Jimmy and his lady goodnight, yet he mindlessly dismissed them as they breezed into the temperate July night. He released his hand from hers and placed it on the small of her back, holding her close to him, with his other hand he gently traced his fingers over the side of her face. Monique's mind was a hive of activity, she knew what to expect, but was curious to discover how the infinite possibilities would play out. Jimmy knew her to be an adventurous girl, she had admitted herself that her sexual appetite was so voracious and unquenchable that she doubted it could ever be entirely fulfilled. 'No' was not a word which passed Monique's lips very often.
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, remembering the first time she had left with Jimmy, shortly after moving back to London from Paris for the second time. They had been introduced at a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend and immediately became attracted to one another, neither of them had been blinded by the delusion of a potential romance, yet found the other to be charming, fun and exhilarating. At the end of the night he had audaciously offered to escort her home, Monique's silent response and questioning eyes were answered by the defence that he didn't want anybody to take advantage of her; what he really meant was that he didn't want anybody except him to take advantage of her. She admired his way of thinking and as soon as they passed through the door to his house, set out to obliterate even his most fantastical expectations.
A tall, tanned man in a light grey suit trod briskly past her table, his fleeting wink relieved Monique's doubting self-assurance that she could still enchant, even without sleep. Her appearance and other people's perception of it was of the utmost importance, Monique's wealth afforded her the luxury of not needing to be anywhere until she was satisfied with the way she looked; appointments, engagements meetings and dates were all put on hold until she had satisfactorily glanced in the full length antique mirror, dismissed her lady’s maid and breezed through the door of her Bloomsbury apartment. She may have felt a little fuzzy inside, but Monique radiated the vibrancy and vitality of a screen siren from the golden age; like Taylor, Loren or Monroe, Monique Bobotte had an ever-present aura, it was not only a magnetism which attracted the attention of anybody within her immediate vicinity, but also the ability to make everybody else around her seem less interesting. It was not just her bright blonde hair or perfectly proportioned body, with legs a little longer than she probably ought to have had, her blemish free, golden skin or even her impeccable style and sense of fashion which drew the attention of all eyes around her, there was simply an elegance about Monique which made it impossible to ignore her; her very presence inspired curiosity.
Quite rightly, she never stepped out without make-up, that morning she was delicately dusted in bronze, a subtle navy and black eye detail drew attention to her mesmeric eyes. She felt tight from tiredness, yet gave no indication of such an ailment, her skin still had enough youth in it to forgive her a night without sleep, it was taut and tanned, her figure and form were doll-like in their proximity to perfection. As she re-crossed her legs, the effort required to lift the weight of her platformed black Laboutin's was evidence of how much her whole body ached, a reminder of the shameless debauchery to which she had been subjected to just a few hours earlier.
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.co.uk, click here
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.com, click here
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.co.uk, click here
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.com, click here