“Do you have a gallery in the city?” James asks, arching on eyebrow inquisitively. “I certainly appreciate a woman who likes art.”
My laugh is immediate.
“Do you mean a gallery that represents my work, or do I own a gallery?” I ask, caught a little off-guard.
He shrugs with a smile.
“Either.”
I giggle again, a little in disbelief.
“Oh goodness, no to both options. I meant that I like to write and draw, when I was saying I like art. I want to be a children’s book author someday, but as you can see, I’m still doing this with City Girls. A gallery would be out of the question, given my finances,” comes my rueful tone.
James nods.
“My apologies, I guess I was presuming too much. I just assumed that an incredibly bright and talented woman like yourself would have representation or be looking into gallery ownership. I can help you with that, if you like,” he offers casually. “I have some friends in the fine art world, and I’m happy to see what they can do.”
I gasp a little, choking for air. Clearly, my date is wealthy and refined, not to mention the fact that he lives at a completely different level than what I’m used to. Mr. Montlake likely goes to charity benefits where plates cost a thousand dollars each, and where women swan about in designer gowns from Neiman Marcus, and not the sale rack from Loehmann’s.
“Oh thanks,” I manage in a small voice. “I’d appreciate your help so much. Thank you again.”
But then I decide to be bold, and turn the tables on the handsome man. “So what brings you to City Girls?” I question. “You’re clearly a man of resources and taste. Why would a master of the universe like yourself need an escort when I’m sure, you have your pick of the litter?”
“Oh, really? You think?” James asks devilishly. “It’s my good looks, right? They make me irresistible.”
I laugh despite myself. James obviously has a sense of humor, and it helps lighten the atmosphere.
“Yes, it’s your good looks,” I acknowledge with another giggle. “But you could walk into a bar like this any night of the week and crook your finger at any woman in the room, and they’d run so fast their heels would be burning.”
James smiles.
“I guess so, although I guess I haven’t tried that particular party trick. But it’s a good question, sweetheart. I guess you could say that I have … ah, very particular tastes, which require a professional.”
I quirk a brow at him, curious.
“What do you mean?”
The handsome man shrugs.
“I guess I should just be open. I’ve been traveling non-stop for the past year or so, and it’s expanded my horizons a lot. And I wasn’t celibate during my travels. I was with the best and most beautiful women from many countries, including Moldova, Vietnam and Niger, to name a few. I’ve indulged in the brothels of Amsterdam, as well as on the beaches of Phuket. I’ve had two, three, and sometimes even four women at once. As a result, I’m not sure that New York can handle my … ah, proclivities, shall we say.”
My eyes widen in spite of my effort to keep my expression neutral. James doesn’t know it, but beneath the table, my thighs squeeze together in anticipation. So he’s that kind of client, hmmm? The kind that likes things wild with no-holds-barred fun, and fortunately, the man is in luck. I’m the right woman to satisfy his needs, and this evening is going to be delightful for us both.
Nor am I surprised by his requests, to be honest. After all, men often come to professionals for this exact reason. Their wives or girlfriends are boring, and are disgusted by certain acts the women consider taboo or frankly, just nasty. As a result, my clients need a woman of the night to keep them satisfied. They need someone lush, curvy, and accepting, who will take it any which way.
Even more, I just happen to be that woman. James’s words, spoken in such a deep, low tone, make my pussy quiver. In my years working for City Girls, only a handful of men have satisfied me the way I crave, and it’s never been an issue because I’m a service provider and I understand that my desires aren’t a priority. But it sounds like my new client wants to play in a whole new ballgame, and I feel myself going moist with anticipation.
“So that’s how you like it, hmm?” I purr throatily. But before I can ask more, the bartender comes around again, his expression inquisitive. James orders a rum and Coke, and I request another glass of Pinot Grigio. Once the bartender departs, I turn back to my handsome client.
“So you were saying?” I murmur with a coy smile. I feel warm thanks to the wine, and my guard is lowered. I lean closer to the handsome man, and his blue eyes flash as he presses his lips to the space just above my ear, his breath warm against my sensitive flesh.