The Accidental Call Girl Read online

  ‘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 . . . but aren’t you forgetting something?’

  Oh God, yes, the money!

  ‘Three hundred.’ It was a wild guess; it sounded right.

  Sandy eyebrows quirked. ‘Very reasonable. I was happy to pay five, at least.’

  ‘That’s my basic,’ she said, still thinking, thinking. ‘If you find you want something fancier, we can renegotiate.’

  Why the hell had she said that? Why? Why? Why? What if he wanted something kinky? Something nasty? He didn’t look that way, but who knew?

  ‘Fancy, eh? I’ll give it some thought. But in the meantime, let’s start with the basic.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he slipped out the black wallet again, and peeled off fifties. ‘There,’ he said, placing the notes on the top of the sideboard.

  Lizzie scooped them up as she passed, heading for the bathroom, but John stayed her with a hand on her arm, light but implacable.

  ‘Do you kiss? I know some girls don’t.’

  She looked at his mouth, especially his beautiful lower lip, so velvety yet determined.

  ‘Yes, I kiss.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ll kiss you when you come back. Now make your call.’

  2

  Something Fancy

  Well, well, then, ‘Bettie Page’, what on earth did I do to receive a gift like you? A beautiful, feisty, retro girl who’s suddenly appeared to me like an angel from 1950s heaven?

  John Smith considered having another drink from the mini bar, but, after a moment, he decided he didn’t need one. He was intoxicated enough already, after the barely more than a mouthful of gin he’d drunk downstairs. Far more excited than he’d been by a woman in a long time, and certainly more turned on than he’d ever been with an escort before. Not that he’d been with a professional woman in a while. Not that he’d been with a lot of them anyway.

  It was interesting, though, to pretend to Bettie that he had.

  Sinking into one of the big chintz armchairs, he took a breath and centred himself, marshalling his feelings. Yes, this was a crazy situation, but he was having fun, so why deny it? And she was too, this unusual young woman with her vintage style and her emotions all over her face. That challenging smile was unmistakeable.

  ‘Bettie, eh?’

  Not her real name, he was sure, but perhaps near to it. She looked the part for Bettie Page, though. She had the same combination of innocence, yet overflowing sensuality. Naughtiness. Yes, that was perfect for her. But how naughty? As an escort she probably took most things, everything, in her stride. Surely she wouldn’t balk at his favoured activities? And yet, despite her profession, there was that strangely untouched quality to her, just like the legendary Bettie. A sweet freshness. A wholesomeness, idiotic as that sounded.

  How long had she been in the game, he wondered. What if she was new to this? She was certainly far younger than his usual preference. His choice was normally for sleek, groomed, experienced women in their thirties, courtesans rather than call girls, ladies of the world. There might be a good deal of pleasure, though, in giving something to her in return for her services, something more than simply the money. Satisfaction, something new . . . a little adventure, more than just the job.

  Now there was the real trick, the deeper game. And with any luck, a working girl who styled herself as ‘Bettie’ and who was prepared to take a client on the fly, after barely five minutes’ chat, was bold enough to play it.

  Suddenly he wasn’t as bored with life and business as he’d been half an hour ago. Suddenly, his gathering unease about the paths he’d chosen, the insidious phantoms of loss and guilt, and the horrid, circling feeling that his life was ultimately empty, all slipped away from him. Suddenly he felt as if he were a young man again, full of dreams. A player; excited, hopeful, potent.

  When he touched his cock it was as hard as stone, risen and eager.

  ‘Come on, Bettie,’ he whispered to himself, smiling as his heart rose too, with anticipation. ‘Hurry up, because if you don’t, I’ll come in there and get you.’

  When Lizzie emerged from the bathroom the first thing she saw was another small pile of banknotes on the dresser.

  ‘Just in case I have a hankering for “fancy”,’ said John amiably. He was lounging on the bed, still fully dressed, although his shoes were lying on their sides on the carpet where he’d obviously kicked them off.

  ‘Oh, right . . . OK.’

  Fancy? What did fancy mean? A bit of bondage? Spanking? Nothing too weird, she hoped. But it might mean they needed ‘
accessories’ and she had none. You don’t take plastic spanking paddles and fluffy handcuffs to the posher kind of birthday party, which was what she was supposed to be at.

  ‘I don’t have any toys with me. Just these.’ The words came out on a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, and louder than she’d meant to. She opened her palm to reveal the couple of condoms she’d had stashed in the bottom of her bag. ‘I wasn’t originally planning to work tonight, but the event I was at was a bit tedious, so I thought I’d take a chance in the bar . . . you know, waste not, want not.’

  What the hell am I babbling about?

  John grinned from his position of comfort and relaxation. A tricky grin, as sunny as before, but with an edge. He was in charge, and he knew it. Maybe that was the ‘fancy’?

  Something slow and snaky and honeyed rolled in her belly. A delicious sensation, scary but making her blood tingle. His blue eyes narrowed as if he were monitoring her physical responses remotely, and the surge of desire swelled again, and grew.

  She’d played jokey little dominance and submission games with a couple of her boyfriends. Just a bit of fun, something to spice things up. But it had never quite lived up to her expectations. Never delivered. Mainly because they’d always wanted her to play the dominatrix for them, wear some cheap black vinyl tat and call them ‘naughty boys’. It’d been a laugh, she supposed, but it hadn’t done much for her, and when one had hinted at turning the tables, she’d said goodnight and goodbye to the relationship. He’d been a nice enough guy, but somehow, in a way she couldn’t define, not ‘good’ enough to be her master and make her bow down.

  But golden John Smith, a gin-drinking man of forty-something, with laughter lines and a look of beautiful world-weariness . . . well, he was ‘good’ enough. Her belly trembled and silky fluid pooled in her sex, shocking and quick.

  Now was the moment to stop being a fake, if she could. Maybe explain, and then perhaps even go on with a new game? And yet she could barely speak. He wasn’t speaking either, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see all. With a little tilt of his head, he told her not to explain or question or break the spell.

  But just when she thought she might break down and scream from the tension, he did speak.

  ‘Toys aren’t always necessary, Bettie. You of all people should know that.’

  Had she blown it? Maybe . . . maybe not. Schooling herself not to falter, she shrugged and moved towards him. When she reached the bed, she dropped her rather inadequate stash of condoms on the side table and said, ‘Of course . . . you’re so right. And I love to improvise, don’t you?’

  Slowly, he sat up, and swivelled around, letting his legs swing down and his feet settle on the floor. ‘Good girl . . . good girl . . .’ He reached out and laid a hand on her hip, fingers curving, just touching the slope of her bottom cheek. The touch became a squeeze, the tips of his four fingers digging into her flesh, not cruelly but with assertion, owning her.

  With his other hand, he drew her nearer, right in between his spread thighs. She was looking down at him but it was as if he were looking down at her, from a great and dominant height. Her heart tripped again, knowing he could give her what she wanted.

  But what was his price? Could she afford to pay?

  He squeezed her bottom harder, as if assessing the resilience of her flesh, his fingertips closer to her pussy now, pushing the cloth of her skirt into the edge of her cleft. With a will of its own, her body started moving, rocking, pushing against his hold. Her sex was heavy, agitated, in need of some attention, and yet they’d barely done anything thus far. She lifted her hands to put them on his shoulders and draw the two of them closer.

  ‘Uh oh.’ The slightest tilt of the head, and a narrowing of his eyes was all the command she needed. She let her hands drop . . . while his free hand rose to her breast, fingers grazing her nipple. Her bra was underwired, but not padded so there was little to dull his touch. With finger and thumb, he took hold of her nipple and pinched it lightly through her clothing, smiling when she let out a gasp, sensation shooting from the contact to her swollen folds, and her clit.

  Squeeze. Pinch. Squeeze. Pinch. Nothing like the sex she was used to, but wonderful. Odd. Infinitely arousing. The wetness between her labia welled again, slippery and almost alarming, saturating the thin strip of cloth between her legs.

  ‘I’m going to make you come,’ said John in a strangely normal voice, ‘and I mean a real one, no faking. I think you can do it for me. You seem like an honest girl, and I think you like the way I’m touching you . . . even if it is business.’

  Lizzie swallowed. For a moment there she’d forgotten she was supposed to be a professional. She’d just been a lucky girl with a really hot man who probably wouldn’t have to do all that much to get her off.

  ‘Will you be honest for me?’ His blue eyes were like the whole world, and unable to get away from. ‘Will you give me what I want? What I’ve paid for?’

  ‘Yes, I think I can do that. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Finger and thumb closed hard on her nipple. It really hurt and she let out a moan from the pain and from other sensations. ‘Honesty, remember?’ His tongue, soft and pink slid along his lower lip and she had to hold in a moan at the sight of that too.

  She nodded, unable to speak, the pressure on the tip of her breast consuming her. How could this be happening? It hurt but it was next to nothing really.

  Then he released her. ‘Take off your cardigan and your dress, nothing else.’

  Shaking, but hoping he couldn’t detect the fine tremors, Lizzie shucked off her cardigan and dropped it on the floor beside her, then she reached behind her, for her zip.

  ‘Let me.’ John turned her like a big doll, whizzed the zip down, and then turned her back again, leaving her to slip the dress off. He put out a hand, though, to steady her, as she stepped out of it.

  She hadn’t really been planning to seduce anyone tonight, so she hadn’t put on her fanciest underwear, just a nice but fairly unfussy set, a plain white bra and panties with a little edge of rosy pink lace.

  ‘Nice. Prim. I like it,’ said John with a pleased smile. Lizzie almost fainted when he hitched himself a little sideways on the bed, reached down and casually adjusted himself in his trousers. As his hand slid away, she could see he was huge, madly erect.

  Oh, yummy.

  He laughed out loud. He’d seen her checking him out. ‘Not too bad, eh?’ He shrugged, still with that golden but vaguely unnerving grin. ‘I guess you see all shapes and sizes.’

  ‘True,’ she replied, wanting to reach out and touch the not too bad item, but knowing instinctively it was forbidden to do so for the moment. ‘And most of them are rather small . . . but you seem to be OK, though, from where I’m standing.’

  ‘Cheeky minx. I should punish you for that.’ He laid a hand on her thigh, just above the top of her hold-up stocking. He didn’t slap her, though perversely she’d hoped he might, just so she could see what one felt like from him. ‘Maybe I will in a bit.’ He stroked her skin, just at the edge of her panties, then drew back.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, you know,’ he went on, leaning back on his elbows for a moment. ‘I expect you’re very popular. Are you? Do you do well?’

  ‘Not too badly.’ It seemed a bland enough answer, not an exact lie. She had the occasional boyfriend, nothing special. She wasn’t promiscuous, but she had sex now and again.

  John nodded. She wasn’t sure what he meant by it, but she didn’t stop to worry. The way he was lying showed off that gorgeous erection. ‘Do you actually, really like your job, then?’ He glanced down to where she was looking, unashamed.

  ‘Yes, I do. And I often come too. The things you see on the telly. Documentaries and stuff . . . They all try to tell people that we don’t enjoy it. But some of us do.’ It seemed safer to cover herself. If she didn’t have a real orgasm soon, she might go mad. He’d barely touched her but her clit was aching, aching, aching.

 
; ‘Show me, then. Pull down the top of your bra. Show me your tits. They look very nice but I’d like to see a bit more of them.’

  Peeling down her straps, Lizzie pushed the cups of her bra down too, easing each breast out and letting it settle on the bunched fabric of the cup. It looked rude and naughty, as if she were presenting two juicy fruits to him on a tray, and it made her just nicely sized breasts look bigger, more opulent.

  ‘Lovely. Now play with your nipples. Make them really come up for me.’

  Tentatively, Lizzie cupped herself, first one breast, then the other. ‘I thought you were going to make me come? I’m doing all the work here.’ A shudder ran down her spine; her nipples were already acutely sensitive, dark and perky.

  ‘Shush. You talk too much. Just do as you’re told.’ The words were soft, almost friendly, but she listened for an undertone, even if there wasn’t one there.

  Closing her eyes, she went about her task, wondering what he was thinking. Touching her breasts made her want to touch herself elsewhere too. It always did. It was putting electricity into a system and getting an overload in a different location. Her clit felt enormous, charged, desperate. As she ran her thumbs across her nipples, tantalising herself, she wanted to pant with excitement.

  And all because this strange man was looking at her. She could feel the weight of his blue stare, even if she couldn’t see him. Were his lips parted just as hers were? Was he hungering just as she did? Did he want a taste of her?

  Swaying her hips, she slid a hand down from her breast to her belly, skirting the edge of her knickers, ready to dive inside.