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Once in the foyer, I press the button, expecting to wait, but I’m surprised when the doors slide open immediately. I look up, surprised, and immediately, my surprise turns to a mixture of shock, appreciation, and something else… something wild and insistent that flares to life inside me with a force that I can’t quite explain. Inside the elevator, there’s a girl. She’s slender, with pale skin, beautiful red hair flecked with gold, and green eyes fringed with long dark lashes. She has a good figure, shown off by a flattering green dress, the same color as her eyes, which are right now trained on me, her expression a curious mixture of relief and apprehension.
My first thought, before I remember Aidan, and his promise to give me a hooker as a birthday present is, who the fuck is she, and what in God’s name is she doing here.
My second thought, after I remember Aidan, and allow my eyes to linger on the body under her dress is, ‘I’ll deal with Aidan later, but right now, this girl is exactly what I need.’
She’s staring at me as if she’s not quite sure that she wants to come inside the apartment. In my imagination, hookers are confident, brassy creatures, but this girl, she looks like she needs me to put an arm around her and whisper reassurances in her ear.
“Good evening,” her voice is halting, unsure. Something in the voice makes me want to pause, to ask if everything is alright, but I shut it down, concentrating instead on the way the material of her dress skims over her full breasts. Already, my body is hardening, my fingers tingling with a need to touch her. Her eyes land on my face again, and beneath the apprehension, I see something familiar in her eyes. Lust.
“Well,” I say slowly, my eyes skimming over her body again, “You’re not what I would have chosen, but you’ll do.”
She doesn’t reply, and her eyes stay trained on my face. I step back so she can come inside the apartment, and she follows me, moving out of the elevator and into the foyer, before pausing to look at me, a confused expression on her face.
“Come in.” I say again, wondering at her hesitation. “I won’t bite.” Then with a smile to put her at ease, I add, “Unless you want me to.”
That does it. I sense it as she relaxes, and I lead her into the living room, shrugging off my jacket, and offering her a seat. Her green eyes are wide and fixed on me, and I start to wonder what she’s thinking. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “Brandy, Water, Wine…?”
“Brandy,” she replies.
Going over to the bar to pour the drinks, I can feel her eyes on me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, but I don’t want to delve too much into it. I want her. I can already imagine how her skin would feel against my fingers. I can already imagine those eyes closed in ecstasy as she comes. It’s all I can do not to pull that green dress up to her waist and fuck her over the sofa, but I’m not an excited teenager at his first sexual experience, although right now, I almost feel like one.
When I turn back to her, she’s looking at the pictures on the wall - an old family portrait, my mother’s ballerina picture, and a few others. I pause to admire the slender curve of her neck, and that hair… I want to plunge my fingers into it. I breathe, willing the straining hardness in my pants to hold on just a little bit longer. I walk towards her. “Here,” I say, offering her the drink.
She turns to me, and her eyes linger on the glass before she reaches for it, slowly, almost gingerly. Her fingers close around the glass and brush mine, and I stiffen involuntarily, taken aback by the jolt I felt from that small touch.
Taking a breath, I sit beside her on the sofa. Her dress has hiked up, exposing a lot more of her smooth thighs. My nose fills with her scent, peach shampoo, and a hint of perfume, and my body responds by hardening some more.
It’s not helping that her eyes are lingering on my face in a way that makes me want to take the glass from her and get down to business. “You like ballet?” I ask, trying to stay cool. I’d much rather be discovering what her luscious pink lips taste like.
“Hmm,” she replies, looking confused again.
Even that unfocused sound is sexy. I breathe again and gesture at the picture of my mother on the wall. “You seemed interested in the picture.”
“Well, I like ballet, as much as any little girl who ever wanted to wear a tutu.” She laughs, and I wonder if she’s nervous. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, I feel nervous too. “But I was looking at the quote from the picture,” she continues, “It’s from one of my favorite poems.”
To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell. My mother had loved that poem. I quote the first line, smiling at her. “But you’re not coy, are you?” I ask. “That would be inconsistent with your profession.”
She frowns and I imagine that maybe she minds being reminded that she’s a hooker. Why are we still talking? I wonder. I’m aching to fuck her. By now, I should be discovering the body beneath that green dress, working on this lust that seems to be growing with every second.
Her voice snaps me out of my carnal thoughts. “The woman in the poem,” she says, “Was she being coy, or careful? Many people have tossed caution to the wind and surrendered to passion, and yet come to regret it later.”
I couldn’t care less about Andrew Marvell’s coy mistress. Right now, I’m fighting the urge to pick this girl up, carry her over my shoulder to the nearest bed and bury myself inside her warmth. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, a woman got me this hot without even so much as a touch.
Calm down, I tell myself. Then to her. “You’re absolutely right. Though only my brother would find a hooker who talks about poetry on the job.”
Immediately the words are out of my mouth, she starts to choke on her drink. Momentarily setting aside my lust, I hurry to the bar and return with a glass of water. “Here,” I take her drink from her and give her the water, “drink this.”
She takes a few sips of water without looking at me
. Why is she so quiet? I don’t know much about hookers, but the women I usually spend time with go out of their way to show me how clever and sophisticated they are. I watch her for a moment as she looks everywhere but at me, then I reach down and take her free hand in mine. It’s small and soft, and at the contact, there’s that jolt again.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
She licks her lips and I almost let out a groan.
“I’m fine,” she says, after a long pause. A small smile touches her lips. “I drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” I take the water from her and set it down on the coffee table. “What’s your name?” I ask.
