and glasses of champagne, we continue the slow, sensual movement of our bodies. My hands brush over her soft, warm skin. With our faces inches apart, our lips so close, I can inhale her breath. I gather all my self-control to restrain from kissing her. Anticipation is a potent aphrodisiac.
I forgo the second bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket and raid the minibar for other drinks. Though I’m crossing the line of professionalism by overdrinking, I don’t give a fucking iota. To appease my guilty conscience, I reassure myself I’m doing this for her benefit. But in truth, I’m enjoying this unguarded moment. Maybe a little too much. But fuck me if I can’t break protocol once in a long and successful career.
I hand her a small bottle. We both swig it down, resuming our dancing.
Her giggles snatch me from my reverie. “What?”
“You stepped on my foot,” she says with an adorable slur.
Impossible, I’m an excellent dancer. “Impossible. I’ve. . . .” I shake my head. “Sorry.”
Loud laughter roars above the soft music.
“I pride myself in being a good dancer. For fucks sake, I even included it in my resume,” I say apologetically.
“Thank goodness this isn’t a job interview then,” she replies, making me join in on the laughter.
“Well, well, if it was, would I get the job?” Fuck me for feeling insecure as I wait for her response.
She tilts her head and smiles. “With a wage deduction. Yeah. Definitely.”
And her eyes are so full of rare, genuine purity that I want to cradle her to my chest and never allow anyone to take that away from her.
I stop in my tracks, but the room continues to spin. Both my hands cup her face.
Her eyes rise to meet mine. They are full of wonder, full of naïve expectations, full of innocent desire. It makes me wonder why a fabulous girl like her needs to hire an escort. Are the fucking guys around her that inept with their dicks?
Her hands tentatively pat over my chest, slowly climbing to the back of my neck and running through my hair, silencing all the fucking thoughts that have been tumbling through my mind.
My lips touch hers. And I feel it again. The taste of utopia, slowly unfurling into my mouth, permeating my senses. Then, like rampant fire, it sears through my bloodstream. First, it burns. Then it cools, soothing my blood flow, dulling the initial singe.
A relentless desire to possess her engulfs me. I have to make her mine. It’s not optional.
I tilt my head to intensify the kiss. The inside of her mouth is warm, soft. A guttural groan erupts from the back of my throat. She tastes of champagne and fine sugar, a heady combination.
Hot damn. It’s official. Her cherry lips are my new favorite flavor. If her mouth feels like this, I can’t wait to taste her pussy.
I reach under her dress and run my hand over her thigh until I palm her ass and knead it. Holy motherfucker! It’s firm but soft. Round and just right.
Jackpot. I really love my job.
MY HANDS FUMBLE along her curves, trying to touch her all at once. I burn with need. Our kisses are a clash of teeth and tongues. My hands fly over her body. Caressing. Seeking. Demanding.
My fingers fidget clumsily with the side zipper of her dress. Fuck. I pull away. Wow. Pause. It can’t be like this. Ensuring a client’s needs prevails over my own. That’s what I get paid to do.
Oh, fuck it all to hell. I clasp her head with both hands and pull her back to me. “What’s happening to me?” I mumble against her lips, before delving into another kiss.
She moans. The sound erupts a drive within me. I’m a possessed man. The primal need to ravish her delicious body dictates my every move. My arms possessively wrap around her voluptuous body. Blinded by the need to complete our sexual connection, we stumble as I guide her to the bedroom’s door.
All I can think of is to plunge inside her with a complete abandonment that leads to nirvana.
Abruptly she pulls back.
I forgo the second bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket and raid the minibar for other drinks. Though I’m crossing the line of professionalism by overdrinking, I don’t give a fucking iota. To appease my guilty conscience, I reassure myself I’m doing this for her benefit. But in truth, I’m enjoying this unguarded moment. Maybe a little too much. But fuck me if I can’t break protocol once in a long and successful career.
I hand her a small bottle. We both swig it down, resuming our dancing.
Her giggles snatch me from my reverie. “What?”
“You stepped on my foot,” she says with an adorable slur.
Impossible, I’m an excellent dancer. “Impossible. I’ve. . . .” I shake my head. “Sorry.”
Loud laughter roars above the soft music.
“I pride myself in being a good dancer. For fucks sake, I even included it in my resume,” I say apologetically.
“Thank goodness this isn’t a job interview then,” she replies, making me join in on the laughter.
“Well, well, if it was, would I get the job?” Fuck me for feeling insecure as I wait for her response.
She tilts her head and smiles. “With a wage deduction. Yeah. Definitely.”
And her eyes are so full of rare, genuine purity that I want to cradle her to my chest and never allow anyone to take that away from her.
I stop in my tracks, but the room continues to spin. Both my hands cup her face.
Her eyes rise to meet mine. They are full of wonder, full of naïve expectations, full of innocent desire. It makes me wonder why a fabulous girl like her needs to hire an escort. Are the fucking guys around her that inept with their dicks?
Her hands tentatively pat over my chest, slowly climbing to the back of my neck and running through my hair, silencing all the fucking thoughts that have been tumbling through my mind.
My lips touch hers. And I feel it again. The taste of utopia, slowly unfurling into my mouth, permeating my senses. Then, like rampant fire, it sears through my bloodstream. First, it burns. Then it cools, soothing my blood flow, dulling the initial singe.
A relentless desire to possess her engulfs me. I have to make her mine. It’s not optional.
I tilt my head to intensify the kiss. The inside of her mouth is warm, soft. A guttural groan erupts from the back of my throat. She tastes of champagne and fine sugar, a heady combination.
Hot damn. It’s official. Her cherry lips are my new favorite flavor. If her mouth feels like this, I can’t wait to taste her pussy.
I reach under her dress and run my hand over her thigh until I palm her ass and knead it. Holy motherfucker! It’s firm but soft. Round and just right.
Jackpot. I really love my job.
MY HANDS FUMBLE along her curves, trying to touch her all at once. I burn with need. Our kisses are a clash of teeth and tongues. My hands fly over her body. Caressing. Seeking. Demanding.
My fingers fidget clumsily with the side zipper of her dress. Fuck. I pull away. Wow. Pause. It can’t be like this. Ensuring a client’s needs prevails over my own. That’s what I get paid to do.
Oh, fuck it all to hell. I clasp her head with both hands and pull her back to me. “What’s happening to me?” I mumble against her lips, before delving into another kiss.
She moans. The sound erupts a drive within me. I’m a possessed man. The primal need to ravish her delicious body dictates my every move. My arms possessively wrap around her voluptuous body. Blinded by the need to complete our sexual connection, we stumble as I guide her to the bedroom’s door.
All I can think of is to plunge inside her with a complete abandonment that leads to nirvana.
Abruptly she pulls back.
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