“Hi,” I muttered, barely trusting my voice.
Strange doesn’t quite cover it. Alexander used to be my most loyal client, almost a fixture in my life, then he disappeared the second he got married. Two years, maybe less, and now here he was again, phoning the agency like nothing had happened. I’d imagined us picking up where we left off, but standing in front of him… no, it wasn’t that simple.
“Hey,” he said, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
We both hovered awkwardly, as if someone had pressed pause on us. It wasn’t excitement, not at first — more like dread dressed up in smart clothes. Then he gestured toward the bar. “Maybe we should get a drink?”
“Maybe we should,” I agreed too quickly, because I didn’t know what else to say.
The drinks helped in the way drinks sometimes do — loosening our words but never touching the real subject. His marriage hung there like smoke we refused to wave away. We laughed, though, genuinely at moments, and I started to remember why I liked him.
After a while he leaned in, quieter now. “Do you want to go up to my room?”
My heart jumped, though I pretended to shrug. “Sure.”
The lift ride was a blur, and at the door upstairs he froze, fumbling with his keycard like a nervous boy. I didn’t wait. I kissed him. Just a brush at first, testing — and then he dragged me closer and it was like striking a match that had been waiting years.
When I finally pulled back, I found myself laughing under my breath. “I didn’t think we still had it in us.”
We both laughed then, a little too loud, and then the laughter died in unison. Our eyes locked. That silent knowing passed between us, and he kissed me again, harder this time.
I let my hands wander under his shirt, fingertips grazing muscles I remembered better than I should. He tugged the shirt off, and for a second I simply looked at him, felt the years fold away.
From there it blurred — a mixture of fumbling urgency and something gentler, something we hadn’t lost. Clothes in a heap, kissing like it was oxygen, both of us desperate to reclaim what had slipped through our fingers.
Later, when the room was quiet again, we lay side by side staring at nothing. The last kiss was softer, slower, as if we wanted to stretch the moment thin enough to live in it.
I broke it with a grin. “So, weekly meetings again?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “Why wouldn’t we?”
And lying there, I remembered — this is why being an independent escort sometimes feels less like work and more like being swept into someone else’s story.
Ready for more tales of power and longing? Continue the journey in An Escort’s Taste of Domination.