ultra-slow-motion video. By running out on Christmas day, I sacrificed my chance to go back for seconds, thirds or five hundred and seventy-sixths of the passion he inspires in me, sweeter than any dessert. Like a woman on a restrictive fad diet, the longing for a taste of him—even just a quick blowjob—is driving me insane.
When did I become the sort of woman who reconsiders her outfit in case a particular male happens to catch a glimpse of it? Or one who fusses with arranging herself at the best possible angle for viewing from his usual direction of approach?
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment he altered me.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from scrutinizing each tall tourist with close-cut yet messy hair or wilting a tiny bit more with each near miss.
I glance at the clock beside my ledger. Quarter after nine. His shift has already begun. He’s never late—too dependable for tardiness. A do-gooder bad boy, if such a thing is possible. He’s not coming. Again.
My sigh buffets the soft, natural waves of my hair, which hides my eyes as I study the ancient hardwood flooring. Until a familiar triple knock rattles the glass.
Snapping to attention, I lift my face. The neon lights outside blind me for a moment as my pupils dilate. I can’t mistake the distinctive rap of one of my key customers.
Oh thank you, thank you.
Despite three hundred and sixty-three hours of imagining this instant, I’m stuck drifting like a sailboat with no wind when it finally arrives.
Frozen, I stare into his usually welcoming face. Tonight it suits the blustery weather better than the radiance of my sheets after his skin has infused them with his heat. Enthralled by his odd grin, tinged with more than a dash of grimace, I don’t notice his gesture immediately.
This time it’s his palm pressed to my window. I lift my hand toward it, prepared to meet him halfway, before I realize there’s a light blue piece of rectangular paper trapped between his broad fingers and the chilled glass.
Not a social call.
And not the kind of business transaction I’d have settled for, attempting to hide my disappointment over. This is why every hooker knows better than to allow attachment.
Every one but me.
I should have refused to service him the moment affection developed between us. But if I’m honest, I often rely on empathy to mold myself into the perfect partner for my guests. Wise or not, I’m connected to almost all the people who request my services whether they seek physical relief, companionship or something more complex. It’s one of the reasons I command top prices in the district and have so many repeat clients.
Like the one I spot approaching behind Rick.
No, no, no. Not now! I never refuse a prospective client I have a positive history with. Reputation precedes me.
There’s a handy weathered wooden bench right beside the infamous bike rack. Men have oftentimes sat and waited for an availability, occasionally meeting a fellow flesh connoisseur who they share their session with or join afterward at the bar for a beer and a fond recounting of the services they selected.
I try to focus on Rick. Still, he must notice my gaze flicker to the man settling in for the long haul. The guy on deck withdraws a fancy phone from his pocket and tinkers with the screen. Reading, checking the stock market or surfing porn, I have no idea. Not likely to bore quickly and give up in any case.
Rick angles his muscular chest to block the guy’s view of the document he slips through a crack in the glass. I attempt to open the door. He pins it closed.
“Take it.” His low speech is muffled by the window. Good thing I’m used to translating.
“Tommy sent you to do his bidding?” I can’t help it. I wallow in my disappointment and frustration for one moment of snarkiness.
“I think he’s trying to play matchmaker.” Rick frowns. “Put that away before anyone notices.”
I glance at the five figures handwritten on the check.
I blink.
Then I
When did I become the sort of woman who reconsiders her outfit in case a particular male happens to catch a glimpse of it? Or one who fusses with arranging herself at the best possible angle for viewing from his usual direction of approach?
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment he altered me.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from scrutinizing each tall tourist with close-cut yet messy hair or wilting a tiny bit more with each near miss.
I glance at the clock beside my ledger. Quarter after nine. His shift has already begun. He’s never late—too dependable for tardiness. A do-gooder bad boy, if such a thing is possible. He’s not coming. Again.
My sigh buffets the soft, natural waves of my hair, which hides my eyes as I study the ancient hardwood flooring. Until a familiar triple knock rattles the glass.
Snapping to attention, I lift my face. The neon lights outside blind me for a moment as my pupils dilate. I can’t mistake the distinctive rap of one of my key customers.
Oh thank you, thank you.
Despite three hundred and sixty-three hours of imagining this instant, I’m stuck drifting like a sailboat with no wind when it finally arrives.
Frozen, I stare into his usually welcoming face. Tonight it suits the blustery weather better than the radiance of my sheets after his skin has infused them with his heat. Enthralled by his odd grin, tinged with more than a dash of grimace, I don’t notice his gesture immediately.
This time it’s his palm pressed to my window. I lift my hand toward it, prepared to meet him halfway, before I realize there’s a light blue piece of rectangular paper trapped between his broad fingers and the chilled glass.
Not a social call.
And not the kind of business transaction I’d have settled for, attempting to hide my disappointment over. This is why every hooker knows better than to allow attachment.
Every one but me.
I should have refused to service him the moment affection developed between us. But if I’m honest, I often rely on empathy to mold myself into the perfect partner for my guests. Wise or not, I’m connected to almost all the people who request my services whether they seek physical relief, companionship or something more complex. It’s one of the reasons I command top prices in the district and have so many repeat clients.
Like the one I spot approaching behind Rick.
No, no, no. Not now! I never refuse a prospective client I have a positive history with. Reputation precedes me.
There’s a handy weathered wooden bench right beside the infamous bike rack. Men have oftentimes sat and waited for an availability, occasionally meeting a fellow flesh connoisseur who they share their session with or join afterward at the bar for a beer and a fond recounting of the services they selected.
I try to focus on Rick. Still, he must notice my gaze flicker to the man settling in for the long haul. The guy on deck withdraws a fancy phone from his pocket and tinkers with the screen. Reading, checking the stock market or surfing porn, I have no idea. Not likely to bore quickly and give up in any case.
Rick angles his muscular chest to block the guy’s view of the document he slips through a crack in the glass. I attempt to open the door. He pins it closed.
“Take it.” His low speech is muffled by the window. Good thing I’m used to translating.
“Tommy sent you to do his bidding?” I can’t help it. I wallow in my disappointment and frustration for one moment of snarkiness.
“I think he’s trying to play matchmaker.” Rick frowns. “Put that away before anyone notices.”
I glance at the five figures handwritten on the check.
I blink.
Then I
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