Free Two Strikes by Holley Trent Page A

yes, she’d like very much. Unfortunately, good customer service at The Beaudelaire did not extend as far as offering one’s body to the guests, no matter how much the clients pled and cajoled. Giselle had already been lectured about that once, two years ago during her training. “ We’re not in the business of prostitution ,” Ms. Gibson had said. “ We make the fantasies possible, but we should never engage in them. ”
    Giselle scoffed, even remembering the conversation. It seemed sometimes Ms. Gibson saw strictly in black and white rather than grayscale.
    Giselle pulled her stare free of the decadent sight at her left and knocked again. Come on, folks. Put on your panties and open up.
    Ms. Gibson was going to have her ass and good if Giselle let the room service orders get backed up again. The Beaudelaire was a five-star establishment, and the management had a low tolerance of inefficiency. Giselle really wasn’t that careless, but…she always seemed to be in the right places at all the wrong times.
    Like now.
    The man down the hall had turned his face back toward his conquest, but seemingly hadn’t forgotten Giselle was there. He’d loosened his right arm from beneath the woman’s ass and crooked his index finger at Giselle.
    Get in line , he was saying.
    “Nope,” she whispered as the door in front of her opened.
    A woman with rumpled hair, who glanced at something to behind her and to her right, asked, “Did you forget the card?”
    She turned her gaze toward Giselle and startled, cringing. “Oh!”
    “Room service, Mrs. Troy.”
    Mrs. Troy nodded and backed away from the door.
    Mrs. Troy had come in with one man, but would be shared by two men for the weekend.
    Eve Troy was beautiful. Well-educated. Wealthy. She was desirable to two of the most gorgeous men Giselle had ever seen in the flesh, and Giselle should have hated her. But, she couldn’t. Mrs. Troy was genuinely kind. She didn’t look down on Giselle the way some of the other well-heeled guests did. Every time she passed the woman, Mrs. Troy had acknowledged her with a nod. She saw her.
    Giselle maneuvered the cart into the room and made a discreet scan of the other three corners. Mrs. Troy’s two men were missing from the view.
    Thank goodness. If Giselle kept on blushing the way she was—like the virgin schoolgirl she most certainly was not —she’d have to call a cab home.
    Some of her fellow staff members had become, more or less, desensitized to the carnival of flesh at The Den.
    Giselle would never be. How could she, when she so badly craved being touched?
    * * *
    Max Fletcher caught sight of his favorite stand-in submissive as he strode through The Beaudelaire’s atrium toward the expansion area. That’s where they let the sadists like him play—the black rooms.
    A smile pulled his lips, and he increased his pace as he slipped his fingers out of his leather gloves.
    Her hips worked in their usual sinuous figure eight as she pushed the cart toward the kitchen. It’d been months since he’d seen those hips unclothed, and that back flattened beneath his palms. Their arrangement was a convenient one. Giselle was far too headstrong to make a good submissive, really, but she played along nicely and was reliable at showing the newbies the ropes.
    The newbie that Ms. Gibson had picked out for him this time? Oh, boy. Not only was she inexperienced, but she was so damned timid if he were to sneeze in her general direction she’d probably keel over. What the hell had the woman been thinking?
    Yeah, his tastes were specific. Hard to fill. Impossible, even, but the closest she could find to his perfect sub was this quavering wallflower with a little cartoon heart tattoo on her wrist?
    He laughed. Of course that was all she could find given the parameters he’d plied her with. She’d found exactly what he’d asked for, but what he asked for wasn’t what he really wanted.
    He couldn’t have what he wanted.
    “Queen G!” he called out,