Escort

by Skye Warren

  She opens the door, and her eyes widen. “What’s this?”

  “I told you I was bringing dinner,” I say, stepping over the threshold and heading into the kitchen.

  “I thought you meant takeout from downstairs.”

  “But no. Tonight I will cook for you my favorite meal.” Inside this bag is everything I need: half a chicken that has been marinating overnight and roasted before arriving, vegetables, an onion, garlic. An array of spices from my pantry.

  Her brow furrows. “A tagine?”

  “You remember?”

  She ducks her head and hides a shy smile. “I don’t think I’ll forget anything about that night.”

  It’s rather uncomfortable, having a boulder sitting on my chest. I remove it by clearing my throat. “You can help me by chopping vegetables, if you’d like.”

  “Of course,” she says, picking up an onion.

  I take it away. “No need to make you cry so early in the evening. Start with the cauliflower.”

  That makes her laugh, and I feel myself relax. I have never cooked with a woman, certainly never a client, but we fall into a pattern of quiet preparation.

  “Like this?” she asks, showing me the cherry tomatoes in quarters.

  Her technique is clumsy, because this tiny kitchen leaves no room for cooking anything but the essentials. It reminds me of the way she kisses, all eagerness, no finesse. “Perfect,” I say. “Keep going.”

  She flashes me a brief, nervous smile before turning back to work. My stomach feels lighter than it should, almost fluttery, and it takes me a moment to realize what this is: nerves. Dear God. She’s turning me into a schoolboy.

  It’s perhaps with too much gusto that I break down the chicken, letting the slice of the knife split the strange tension in the air. The meat comes apart under my hands, tender and fragrant.

  “Tell me about your day,” I say, my tone coaxing. I need to get us back to solid ground. We are shallow and flirty; that’s fine. But we will not be nervous. There is nothing more at stake here than a fun night together.

  “I played for a while. And then—”

  “Played what?”

  “Oh.” She makes an embarrassed face. “I forgot you didn’t know. I’m a pianist.”

  I have to bite my tongue so I don’t ask her to play for me. It’s not her job to perform for me. It’s mine to perform for her. Finished with the chicken, I settle the pieces into the dish and wash my hands in the sink. “That’s incredible. You play every day?”

  A flush this time. “Yes, most days. It’s my job actually, so…”

  I pause with my hands under the warm water. It’s not hard to believe that she’s a concert pianist. She has the wild hair and the dreamy atmosphere. And certainly the wealth that would have afforded her the opportunity to train at a world-renowned music school.

  But she does not leave this suite. How does a concert pianist work from home?

  She fills in my questioning silence. “I have a video channel. You know, online.”

  First, there’s shock. I turn off the water. This tentative creature exposes herself online? Perhaps not her body, but music is far more intimate than that. And then there’s attraction, the kind that makes me want to watch every video she’s ever posted. Damn. “That’s incredible. Would it make you self-conscious if you showed me one of your videos?”

  “No. I mean, yes, but not as much as what we did the other night. When I’m playing, that’s when I’m the most comfortable. The most… me.”

  “After we’ve eaten,” I tell her.

  She looks more comfortable just talking about music. “I like this. The cooking thing.”

  “Here, add the vegetables.” I hold the pan for her while she puts in carrots, zucchini, onions. On top of that I add the marinade, where they will simmer together on the stove top before serving. Not a traditional terra-cotta dish, but I had to improvise with her small kitchen, doing most of the cooking at my home. “I cook almost every night. It’s soothing.”

  She peers over my arm at the stew. “Why is it orange?”

  “Paprika is what gives it the color. Turmeric. Cinnamon. Ginger.”

  Her lips form a circle and it’s too much of an invitation, whether she means it or not. I touch my forefinger to her bottom lip, giving her the chance to pull away. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t move. I know without trying it that my skin will taste like spices. Without breaking eye contact, I push my finger inside, rubbing my finger pad along her tongue.

  “Coriander,” I murmur. “Cumin. Olive oil.”

  She sucks in a breath, which forms a seal around my finger. The pulling sensation almost brings me to my knees, strong enough, shocking enough that I pull away.

  “What do you think?” I ask softly.

  Her swallow is an audible surrender. “It’s really good.”

  That makes me laugh, but only a little. “Really good? I’ll have to try harder.”

  “I would die,” she says, both solemn and playful in a way I’m learning is unique to her, “if it were any better. I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

  “Poof,” I tell her, more playful than solemn. “You would expire on the spot.”

  Her smile is tilted. “You would do that to me?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

  There are trolls who live under bridges, according to my mother. She was full of superstitions and stories. They were fun when I was small. They turned darker later. These trolls, they make you answer questions in order to pass. That’s what I become during dinner, cajoling and curious.

  I want to know everything about her, including when she started to play—she was three when she first read music, but she played from the moment her pianist mother sat her on her knee. She played from a young age, and then… and then there was tragedy. She does not tell me what it is, and I don’t ask. That’s beyond the scope of what we do here. Sorrow has no place here.

  And under no circumstances will I make her cry—again.

  “When did you begin your video channel?” The tagine turned out to be exceptional, despite her rather sad stove top that heated unevenly.

  “A couple years ago.” She takes a bite and closes her eyes, giving this little moan I don’t think she knows she’s doing. It’s completely involuntary, that sound. Completely sexual. When her eyes open again, she looks a little dazed. “I was going through a dark time. Feeling very alone here, so I posted online, thinking maybe I would find another musician going through the same thing. It went viral on social media, and then I had these followers asking for more.”

  “You must have exceptional talent.”

  She looks shy, but of course she does. “There are so many talented musicians out there.”

  “Then what sets you apart?” I ask, half as a taunt, and half because I truly want to know. I see something incredible in her, something almost too sweet to be borne, but that does not mean the world will see it. In fact, the very opposite is usually true: the more rare and precious a gift, the more easily the world will dismiss it.

  A helpless shrug is my only answer.

  And then I cannot wait any longer. The tagine is only half-gone, our plates almost empty but ready for second helpings, but I have to see her in her element.

  The first thing when I get to the website is a picture of her. It’s part of the header graphic, a picture of her with her hair a wild halo, the shadows falling dramatically around her, her eyes closed in ecstasy. Climax, my sex-ready mind supplies. That’s how she will look during climax.

  Of course, she isn’t having sex in the picture. As the photo fades to black I can see the lace of another high collar. And the barest hint of her hands in motion. She’s playing the piano. This has been sex for her. This is how a healthy young woman has managed to remain a virgin; not because she is sexless, but because she found a different sensual outlet for her body.

  It’s hard to tear my gaze away from that shot in the header. Distantly I recognize that it must have bee
n taken by a professional photographer, the focus is too clear, the lighting too perfect, for anything less. There’s a surprising streak of jealousy—that another man has been here, photographing her, admiring her, but I push that aside. All of this looks completely professional. The name across the top isn’t hers, not precisely. A stage name. Bea Sharp, like the musical note. I have to blink once, twice, against the number of followers she has. This is more than an Internet sensation. This is a real-life celebrity sitting beside me, blushing profusely.

  “It’s a little strange seeing someone look at it,” the celebrity says, her skin a pretty pink. “Normally I can just pretend like no one really sees me.”

  Many thousands of people see her, the numbers prove. Millions actually. “This is incredible. You do this from here. Where is the piano?”

  She gestures toward the other side of the suite. “The second bedroom. It was always the music room, but since the page has grown, I have some lighting equipment and cameras.”

  My finger hovers over one of the videos. “May I?”

  “You don’t have to,” she says, which doesn’t answer the question.

  “It’s rather embarrassing how much I want to. But only with your permission.”

  She ducks her head in a picture of humble grace. My God, this woman. She is from a different time period, one with gowns and thrones. No wonder she lives at the top of the tower. So what would that make me? A court jester, I suppose. Someone to amuse her.

  The video expands on the screen, focused on the piano. Only a little of her body is visible, a deep velvet dress that ends halfway down her forearms. Her nails are unpolished, neatly trimmed, square-tipped but delicate, strong and feminine. Her skin gleams in the bright light, highlighting the freckles across her skin, even there. I like to think that if I had seen this video first, I would have recognized her by her hands alone, both delicate and surprisingly strong.

  On the screen she places her hands on the piano.

  In real life she twines her fingers together, anxious and anticipatory.

  Both of the actions make a knot in my chest, tight enough that it’s hard to breathe. I can’t take a breath until the first note reverberates through the air. Even through the pale phone speakers I can feel the depth of the sound. The undeniable rightness of it.

  And then she plays, bringing to life Sia’s “Chandelier” with a classical bent that I can only marvel at. I can feel her skill and her passion coming through every note. There is reckless abandon in the song, fear and grief and hope. “Mon Dieu,” I breathe.

  From the corner of my eye, in the single ounce of my body not focused wholly on the song being played, I can see Bea’s fingers twitch in the same pattern they do on screen. She really is in her element with music. She’s a goddess.

  I set the phone down, letting it play between us.

  The notes build something new between us, a kind of foreplay. When she looks at me, I can tell she feels it too. This time she isn’t afraid. It isn’t something to fear, the music.

  “Bea,” I murmur. “Come here.”

  She does not hesitate. In seconds she’s in my arms, and I pull her firmly onto my lap. There’s only a slight squirm, enough to make my cock throb, while she wonders whether I can support her. Why do women worry about that? There’s nothing more fulfilling than holding her this way, than feeling her soft and supple in my arms while I hold her still for a kiss.

  My lips touch hers with barely held restraint. Don’t devour her.

  The music is her tutor this time, but it’s also mine. It teaches us the rhythm to use as I nip gently at her bottom lip, as she shyly strokes her tongue against mine.

  When she pulls back, she’s breathing hard. Those pale green eyes are darker now, with passion, with confidence, and I am close to bursting.

  “Wow,” she whispers.

  It makes me laugh a little, though it comes out unsteady. Mon Dieu, indeed.

  You might think that I must woo every client, but most frequently it happens the other way around. Women tempt me and flatter me and please me, even when they are paying for the privilege. I have been treated to the finest chefs and flown in private jets. They wear beautiful lingerie and compliment me as if I might walk out the door if they don’t.

  Nothing has ever seduced me as much as this.

  No one as much as her.

  “Can we do it again?” she asks, a little playful.

  Why did I think I could be the court jester for her? I would be the peasant, not even fit to set a foot in the same room. “I want to lick you,” I tell her, fervent and true. “Kneeling before you while you play this song for me.”

  Her eyes widen, because she does not mistake my meaning. “I’m sure I couldn’t keep playing.”

  “You’ll have lots of practice first,” I say, and I don’t mean practice playing the piano.

  I mean practice receiving pleasure from my tongue, her legs spread wide for me, her pussy wet and swollen from my caresses. I want her so well versed in this that she begs me with her subtle little moans, barely audible above the song. It’s a physical pain, imagining her hips jerk against me as she climaxes, the singular vibration of the keys as she comes.

  Her eyes have turned a beautiful shade of green, darker than jade. It makes me think of a smooth lake lit by a full moon, both opaque and luminescent.

  “Again,” I murmur.

  Can we do it again? It’s startling how much I want that. Not only to kiss her but to hold her, to see her. There’s a longing inside me to ask to see her again, even though it shouldn’t matter if she books another Saturday night, shouldn’t matter if it’s her or any other woman. It’s never mattered before.

  This time she is the one to press her lips to mine, and it’s that much sweeter. With her uncertainty and her eagerness. I have never experienced anything this wholesome. I certainly did not expect to find it in a client.

  She does not move to open her mouth, nor open mine. There’s only the press, somehow made more erotic by the chasteness. I surrender to it, surrender to her, glorying in the sensation of plump lips and feather breaths. The sensation of her trembling body in my arms, the shimmer of moonlight on water made real.

  Her body shifts on my lap, barely an inch to the side. Enough to brush against my hard cock. I suck in a breath, shocked by the effort it takes not to come.

  She barely touched me. She didn’t touch me, not on purpose. There are so many layers of clothes between us, but I’m ready to come like a teenager.

  Her eyes meet mine, wide and wondering. “Is that…”

  “My cock. Say it. I want to hear you say the word.”

  A blush. “Right now?”

  “If you want it inside you, you should be able to ask for it.”

  “Cock,” she whispers.

  I’m moved by her shyness and by how much she wants me. Moved by the sweet curiosity in her trembling voice. But not enough to let her off the hook. “Say ‘I want your cock.’”

  There’s a longer pause this time. “I want your cock.”

  Jesus, my cock throbs in response. It hears her. It wants her right back. “Say ‘Make me come on your cock, until my pretty little cunt can’t take any more.’”

  She sucks in a breath. “This is what you meant.”

  “What?”

  “About desire.”

  “Haven’t you felt it before, mon ami? Why did you call for me if not for desire?”

  It’s a question she has dodged before, her reasons. And she dodges it again. “Not like this. I wondered. I was curious, but I never felt it like this.”

  I force myself to observe her coolly, from a distance instead of like the slavering beast I feel inside. “Breathing hard, eyelids low. You’re warm all over. Yes, this is what desire looks like. And I’m sure you’ll be wet when I touch you, won’t you?”

  She exhales, a sound of acquiescence. “Make me come on your cock.”

  “Until?” Perhaps it is cruel of me. The knowledge isn’t enough to make me st
op. That’s how badly I want to hear those words from her petal-pink mouth.

  “Until my pretty little pussy can’t take anymore.”

  Hearing the words from her lips is too much. I have to kiss her, and once I start, I can’t stop. I’m tasting her, licking her, biting her. Her enthusiasm matches my own; she tugs at my shirt, my collar, trying to get closer. It’s not enough, never enough.

  There’s a moment of indecision, when her knee comes up, blocking us. It’s now that I should take us to the bedroom. Now that I should turn this frantic make-out session into a seduction. But my own need burns too hotly. I’m wild and untried, as if her inexperience has become my own. So I yank her onto my lap, harder, fully against me. And then she straddles me, her heat pressed right up against my cock. There’s no slowing this down. No stopping.

  She moves her hips against me, hesitant, curious. “Is this okay?”

  “It’s perfect. Do it again.”

  When she does, I’m the one who lets out a groan. Mon Dieu, her body is heaven. I’m torn between the places I want to touch her—to cup her face and feel her hair curl around my hand. To feel her breasts, maybe find the buttons hidden in the demure lace dress and bare her to me.

  I decide on her hips, the better to rock her pussy against my cock. I’m throbbing and hurting, but all I want is for her to come. I show her the rhythm, and there, there, she learns it.

  Her frantic little breaths flutter against my neck like a butterfly. Every muscle in my body strains against the need to throw her onto the table, the dishes and seduction be damned. There is self-control somewhere inside me. I don’t feel it, but it must be there, because somehow I remain seated, barely, my whole body clenching, hips already fucking into nothing.

  When she comes, I feel her ecstasy wash over me like a balm. It doesn’t feel good. That would be too ordinary for someone like Bea. It feels like I’ve been granted a reprieve.

  I hold her against me as the tremors take her body, one hand keeping her hips flush with mine, the other cradling her head on my shoulder.