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Paying for sex is… so obtuse. Bad. Or so society leads us to believe. And for a woman? I can’t say I’ve heard of it happening all that much.
But most of the lovers in my life have been so-so. Nate and I were great at first, but then things fizzled out. I can’t say I’ve ever had a wild time in the bedroom, and looking at some of the ‘menu’ items on the list makes my cheeks flush.
Every fetish known to man is there.
Every.
Single.
One.
I think my answers on the menu card were probably the most vanilla Margaret’s probably ever seen. I’m not completely vanilla, but I can’t for the life of me consider nipple clamps. That just sounds painful…
Having to think about what it is you really want in bed is a revelation.
This is my fantasy after all, and in my experience, most men my age, or younger, don’t really know what they’re doing. The guy doesn’t have to be a complete silver fox, but the idea of an older man in a suit who only has eyes for me, desiring me like no other; it’s a scene I’ve played out in my head many times.
Hence why I need to do this.
The very idea of a man ravaging, or as I like to call it; ‘pleasuring’ my body, sends a little thrill right through me.
Prostitution is illegal in the state of Washington, but Endeavors somehow works around these rules. Legal loopholes exist for the billionaire that owns this club and hotel.
I’ve almost psyched myself up, for the hundredth time, going over the pros and cons of what I’m about to do. I clutch the half empty glass of bubbles, as I doubt my life choices, when I hear a knock at the door.
My heart pounds in my chest so loudly, I’m certain he can hear it.
Holy shit.
I guess it’s showtime.
I half stand, when I hear the room door click as he enters and I scurry back down into the couch, taking a huge gulp of champagne. Of course, I manage to spill some on my dress and quickly wipe it dry with one of the nearby napkins.
I feel my cheeks and ears redden; an embarrassing trait I’ve had since childhood. My heart skips a beat and I reassure myself that this is going to be okay. It’s going to be more than okay, even.
We both know why we’re here.
The seconds tick and I feel his presence before I see him. I smell his cologne; masculine and spicy and it makes me press my legs together.
Then I see his silhouette. He’s wearing a suit with a bow-tie.
I swallow hard, my hands both fighting for room around the body of my glass. I squeeze so hard I think I might break it, but then he speaks.
“Imogen?” He has a thick accent I can’t place. Slavic? Russian? Who the fuck cares…
“My name is Khristian.”
I swallow hard. Of course he has a sexy name to match his sexy voice and cologne.
Ice, blue eyes find mine and my heart jolts.
Oh yes, Endeavors. Ding-dong, you got it right.
I make a mental note to send Margaret a bouquet of flowers.
This guy is hot.
He’s handsome. Older, maybe early forties, with high cheekbones and a small amount of scruff with trimmed sideburns. His jaw is chiseled and firm. And he’s tall. Very tall.
