She sat a vision in the far corner, sipping a glass of red wine, her caramel legs crossed at the knee below a barely-there chemise. Even seated, her body curved and strained against the sheer fabric in all the right places. She took inventory of me with a set of aqua-marine eyes, invited me over with a flip of her hand. 

“Please. Join me for a drink.”

I floated over, took a glass, and settled on the edge of the bed, coughed into my hand.

She leaned forward, the fabric drifting low on her chest, my eyes with it. “So Mr...”


“So Mr. Wilkinson, what, exactly, can I do for you?”

I sat stunned by her directness, watched her lips leave a delicious imprint on the glass as she sat it on the side table, her gaze never leaving mine. I withered. 

“Oh, come now Mr. Wilkinson. Surely you have something on your mind or you wouldn't have called.” She leaned back and ran a hand through a river of silky-blond hair, uncrossed her legs. 

What was a woman like this doing fishing men out of a stall?

She tilted her head and asked again, and this time I told her, my voice cracking like a schoolboy in heat. It was like I was listening to someone else speak. 

A wicked grin slid over her face. “Naughty boy. The only question is—can you afford me?”