I had been with a lot of clients over the last two years. They all wanted me: my body, my pleasure, my attention. But the way Turner looked at and touched me, somehow rough and careful at the same time, made me feel like he wanted me.

He moved the dildo again, his fingers digging into my hip, and the pleasure twisting in my belly rose up too high for my body to contain, and I spilled over into orgasm.

It wasn’t like any orgasm I’d ever experienced. It felt tighter somehow, deeper inside me, and it went on and on while I clamped down on the dildo and shuddered and throbbed. And then I felt Turner’s fingers at my clit again, teasing lightly and sending me into a fresh wave of spasms.

I curled away from him, finally, totally unable to take any more. I lay on my side on the bed, panting, feeling a droplet of sweat roll down one of my breasts.

Turner’s hand slid from my hip to my knee, stroking my thigh, soothing me.

“What did you do to me?” I said, when my brain cells had recovered enough to produce language.

“I thought you might like that,” he said. “Now roll onto your front.”

I obeyed with rubbery limbs, and flopped down with my face pressed into the mattress. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you really have to ask that question?” he asked, and I heard his zipper slide down.

I pushed up onto my elbows, suddenly concerned, but he curled one hand around the back of my neck and pressed me back against the bed. “Calm down,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to force you.” I heard a sound, and tried to turn my head to look, but he kept his hand where it was, pushing me down, and I couldn’t move.

Maybe I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. For some stupid reason, I trusted him.

The noise got louder and came faster, and I realized what it was. He was jerking himself off. Looking at my bare ass and touching himself. The realization made me flush all over. I thought he was probably trying to make me feel dirty, but it wasn’t working. It had the opposite effect. I felt like a queen, and he had come to lay offerings at my feet.

“Christ,” he said, and groaned loudly, and then I felt a splash of heat against my lower back.

Holy shit, he just came on me.

That wasn’t exactly what I meant about laying offerings.

His hand on my neck relaxed, and I pushed up onto my elbows, indignant. “Why don’t you give a girl a little warning?”

He laughed. “You loved it. Hold still, I’ll clean you up.”

I lay there, annoyed and kind of turned on, while he pulled a box of tissues from the side table and mopped me off. “I’m not a living porno,” I said. “Cumshots aren’t classy.”

“And you’re a real classy girl,” he said, with a hard edge to his voice that I didn’t like. I turned my face away from him. Emotional whiplash. He’d just neatly dethroned me. I was back to being nothing but a whore.

“Don’t sulk,” he said. “It isn’t attractive.” I heard his zipper glide up again, and he climbed off the bed and tossed the tissue in the wastebasket. I turned to look at him. He was neat and tidy again, every stitch of clothing neatly in place. You would never know that two minutes ago he’d been stroking himself off onto my bare ass.

“I’m not sulking,” I said.

“Women always say that, and it’s never true,” he said. “Now. I’m going to order some wine, and then we’ll sit down and have a conversation.”

“I thought you weren’t paying me to talk,” I said.

“Of course I’m not,” he said. “This is different. I have a proposition to make.”

6

“So,” Turner said, leaning back against the sofa.

I swirled my wine in its glass. I didn’t like red wine and didn’t ever drink it—didn’t drink much at all, really—but I was happy to hold it in my hand and pretend I was a sophisticated woman of the world. Drinking red wine meant you were a real grownup. I had never graduated from the wine coolers I drank with my friends in high school: sweet as sin and barely even alcoholic. I lifted the glass to my nose and inhaled. It even smelled expensive, something I couldn’t afford to drink.

I glanced up, feeling a little self-conscious about sitting there smelling Turner’s wine. He was watching me with one eyebrow quirked. Busted.

“I didn’t realize you were a wine aficionado,” he said.

“Oh yeah, love the stuff,” I said. “Great nose. Sexy body. Notes of, uh, cinnamon and bergamot.” I didn’t even know what bergamot was, I’d just heard a client say the word once and thought it sounded fancy. Hopefully it was something food-related.

God, I was such an idiot.

“Bergamot,” he said. “Right.” He took a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving my face. “Sassy. Let me propose something.”

“Marriage?” I said. “But we hardly know each other!”

“Yes, you’re very amusing,” he said dryly. “Now be quiet and listen to me. I’m a possessive man, and I don’t share well with others. I want you, and that means I want you all to myself. No doubt I’ll grow tired of you soon, but in the meantime, I’d like to establish an exclusive arrangement.”

What a jerk: telling me how much he wanted me and then insulting me in the same breath. Nobody ever got tired of me. All of my regular clients kept coming back, year after year, unless they got married or their wife found out or something. But that wasn’t getting tired. That was just… moving on. “An arrangement,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s say a month. No other clients, no dancing. Only me.”

I scoffed. “No clients for a month? My regulars will all forget about me. I’m sure you’re going to tell me you’ll make it worth my while, but it doesn’t matter how much you pay me if I don’t have any clients when I come back to work.”

“Tell them you’re going on vacation,” he said. “Let them think about you lying on the beach in a bikini. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I leaned back against the couch, considering. That might work, but it was still a risk. Right now, I had a monopoly: my regulars kept coming back to me because I never gave them the chance to sample the club’s other options. I was at work pretty much every night, and I had them on a schedule. I knew which one would show up on Tuesday evening, and I made sure to be available. But if I was gone for a month, they’d all have to turn to one of the other girls. Maybe Xanadu, or even Fresh Meat. And what if they decided they liked her better than me?