looking for an escort, he didn’t just put in a call to an exclusive agency for a breath-takingly high-end woman to go with it? Rather than pick up an unknown quantity, on spec, in a hotel bar. Leaning against the lift’s wall, though, he eyed her up too as the doors slid closed, looking satisfied enough with his random choice. Was he trying to estimate her price?
‘So, do we do the “elevator” scene?’ he suggested, making no move towards her, except with his bright blue eyes.
Oh yeah, in all those scenes in films and sexy stories, it always happened. The hot couple slammed together in the lift like ravenous dogs and kissed the hell out of each other.
‘I don’t know. You’re in charge.’
‘I most certainly am,’ he said roundly, ‘but let’s pretend and savour the anticipation, shall we? The uncertainty. Even though I do know that you’re the surest of sure things.’
Bingo! He does think I’m an escort.
Confirming her suspicions like that, his words should have sounded crass and crude, but instead they were provocative, exciting her. Especially the bit about him being ‘in charge’. Brent had always said it was the whore who was really in charge during a booking, because he or she could just dump the money, say ‘No way!’ and walk out. But somehow Lizzie didn’t think it’d be that way with Mr John Smith, regardless of whether or not he believed she was a call girl.
This is so dangerous.
But she could no sooner have turned back now than ceased to breathe.
‘And anyway, here we are.’ As he doors sprang open again, he ushered her out, his fingertips just touching her back. It was a light contact, but seemed powerful out of all proportion, and Lizzie found herself almost trotting as they hurried along the short corridor to John’s room.
As he let her in, she smiled. She’d not really taken much note of their surroundings as they’d walked, but the room itself was notable. Spacious, but strangely old-fashioned in some ways, almost kitsch. The linens were in chintz, with warm red notes, and the carpet was the colour of vin rouge. It was a bizarre look, compared to the spare lines and neutrals of most modern hotels, but, then, the Waverley Grange Hotel was a strange place, both exclusive and with a frisky, whispered reputation. Lizzie had been to functions here before, but had never seen the accommodation, although she’d heard about the legendary chintz-clad love-nests of the Waverley from Brent’s taller tales.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ John grinned, indicating the deliciously blowsy décor with an open hand.
‘Well, I like it.’ Perhaps it was best to let him think she’d been in rooms like this before; seen clients and fucked them under or on top of the fluffy chintz duvets.
‘So do I . . . it’s refreshingly retro. I like old-fashioned things.’ His blue eyes flicked to her ‘Bettie’ hair, her pencil skirt and her angora.
Lizzie realised she was hanging back, barely through the doorway. Now that wasn’t confidence; she’d better shape up. She sashayed forward to the bed, and sat down on it, trying to project sangfroid. ‘That’s good to know.’ Her own voice sounded odd to her, and she could hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her veins.
John paused by the wardrobe, slipping off his jacket and putting it on a hanger. So normal, so everyday. ‘Aren’t you going to phone your agency? That’s what girls usually do about now. They always slip off to the bathroom and I hear them muttering.’
Oops, she was giving herself away. He’d suss her out any moment, if he hadn’t already. ‘I’m . . . I’m an independent.’ She flashed through her brain, trying to remember things Brent had told her, and stuff from Secret Diary of a Call Girl on the telly. ‘But I think I will call someone, if you don’t mind.’ Springing up again, she headed for the other door in the room. It had to lead to the bathroom.
‘Of course . .
‘So, do we do the “elevator” scene?’ he suggested, making no move towards her, except with his bright blue eyes.
Oh yeah, in all those scenes in films and sexy stories, it always happened. The hot couple slammed together in the lift like ravenous dogs and kissed the hell out of each other.
‘I don’t know. You’re in charge.’
‘I most certainly am,’ he said roundly, ‘but let’s pretend and savour the anticipation, shall we? The uncertainty. Even though I do know that you’re the surest of sure things.’
Bingo! He does think I’m an escort.
Confirming her suspicions like that, his words should have sounded crass and crude, but instead they were provocative, exciting her. Especially the bit about him being ‘in charge’. Brent had always said it was the whore who was really in charge during a booking, because he or she could just dump the money, say ‘No way!’ and walk out. But somehow Lizzie didn’t think it’d be that way with Mr John Smith, regardless of whether or not he believed she was a call girl.
This is so dangerous.
But she could no sooner have turned back now than ceased to breathe.
‘And anyway, here we are.’ As he doors sprang open again, he ushered her out, his fingertips just touching her back. It was a light contact, but seemed powerful out of all proportion, and Lizzie found herself almost trotting as they hurried along the short corridor to John’s room.
As he let her in, she smiled. She’d not really taken much note of their surroundings as they’d walked, but the room itself was notable. Spacious, but strangely old-fashioned in some ways, almost kitsch. The linens were in chintz, with warm red notes, and the carpet was the colour of vin rouge. It was a bizarre look, compared to the spare lines and neutrals of most modern hotels, but, then, the Waverley Grange Hotel was a strange place, both exclusive and with a frisky, whispered reputation. Lizzie had been to functions here before, but had never seen the accommodation, although she’d heard about the legendary chintz-clad love-nests of the Waverley from Brent’s taller tales.
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ John grinned, indicating the deliciously blowsy décor with an open hand.
‘Well, I like it.’ Perhaps it was best to let him think she’d been in rooms like this before; seen clients and fucked them under or on top of the fluffy chintz duvets.
‘So do I . . . it’s refreshingly retro. I like old-fashioned things.’ His blue eyes flicked to her ‘Bettie’ hair, her pencil skirt and her angora.
Lizzie realised she was hanging back, barely through the doorway. Now that wasn’t confidence; she’d better shape up. She sashayed forward to the bed, and sat down on it, trying to project sangfroid. ‘That’s good to know.’ Her own voice sounded odd to her, and she could hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her veins.
John paused by the wardrobe, slipping off his jacket and putting it on a hanger. So normal, so everyday. ‘Aren’t you going to phone your agency? That’s what girls usually do about now. They always slip off to the bathroom and I hear them muttering.’
Oops, she was giving herself away. He’d suss her out any moment, if he hadn’t already. ‘I’m . . . I’m an independent.’ She flashed through her brain, trying to remember things Brent had told her, and stuff from Secret Diary of a Call Girl on the telly. ‘But I think I will call someone, if you don’t mind.’ Springing up again, she headed for the other door in the room. It had to lead to the bathroom.
‘Of course . .
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