was that good. Melinda had lots of repeat customers, some of whom were known to her by their real names—or what they said were their real names. She had her own names for her regulars, frequently related to their dick size. Or color, in this case, she thought with a suppressed chuckle and a not-suppressed smile that Ernest might take for himself. That was something she did almost on instinct. In any case, she was already counting the money.
“Would you like to come with me?” he asked, almost shyly. Men knew by instinct—the smart ones anyway—that shyness is a major turn-on for all women.
“I’d like that.” And being demure worked just as well in the other direction. “To see your friend?”
“Perhaps.” His first mistake. Ernest would not be displeased to sample these goods himself. Filthy whore though she might be, she was a good lover, with much practice in her trade, and his drives were the same as those of most men. “Would you please come with me?”
“Surely.”
It was only a short drive, rather to Melinda’s surprise. A place right in town, an upscale condo with its own underground parking garage. “Ernest” got out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. They walked to the elevator bank, and Ernest hit the button. She didn’t know the building, but the outside was distinctive enough to remember the image of it. So John had a place in town? More convenient for her, and for him? she wondered. Or maybe he remembered her fondly. That happened quite a lot in her experience.
“John” was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, holding a nice glass of white wine.
“Well, hello, John, what a pleasant surprise,” she said in greeting, with her best smile. It was a particularly good smile, sure to warm the cockles of a man’s heart, and the other cockles, too, or course. Then she walked over, kissing him sweetly before taking the offered glass. Then a tiny sip. “John, you have the best taste in wine. Italian?”
“Pinot grigio,” he confirmed.
“They do the best food, too.”
“Is your ancestry Italian?” John asked.
“Hungarian,” she admitted. “We do good pastry, but the Italians do the best veal in the world.” Another hello kiss. John was a little odd but a really good kisser. “How have you been?”
“Travel is such a problem for me,” he admitted, falsely at the moment.
“Where did you have to go?” Melinda asked.
“Paris.”
“Do you like the wine there?”
“Italian is better,” he replied, a little bored with the conversation. She wasn’t here for her talking ability. All women had that, but Melinda’s talents went to other areas. “You are nicely dressed,” he observed.
It comes off quickly enough, she didn’t say. She selected her business clothing with that in mind. Some men like their women nude, but a surprising number liked the partially clothed quickie: skirt hiked up, bent over a table or couch, bra on but tits out. . . . John liked on-the-knees oral, too, something she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t get carried away. “Just something I threw together. So this is a nice apartment.”
“It is convenient. I like the view.”
Melinda took the opportunity to look out the plate-glass window. Okay, good. Now she knew exactly where she was. There were a lot of people on the street, insofar as they had streets here, ways to walk from one lavish hotel to another, for those too cheap to get a taxi. Not much in the way of sidewalks, though. You didn’t make money from the sidewalks. John just stayed back and looked at her.
“Melinda, you are a vision,” he said with a smile. It was a smile she was used to—the “wannafuckyou” smile. Polite on the surface, yearning underneath. A brief glance below John’s belt line confirmed her guess.
It was time to walk toward him for another kiss. Could have been worse.
“Mmm,” she murmured. Okay, time for business, John. His arms went around her. Rather strong arms, maybe to let her know that she was his property. Men were that way. Then, gently, he led her to the bedroom.
Wow, she thought. Whoever had decorated this room had been one who knew what the condo was for. Probably not his/ her first such commission, Melinda was sure, down to the cute little chair for her to disrobe on, by the window. At sunset it would have been fucking perfect, she thought. She sat down and first of all removed her Manolo Blahnik shoes. Pretty though they were, taking