The Hooker

This book is a work of fiction. All

names, characters, locations, and

incidents are products of the author’s

imagination, and have been used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

persons living or dead, locales, or

events is entirely coincidental.

THE HOOKER

To each and everyone of my readers.

You have changed my life.

Also

You’re the best.

The Hooker is a short book featuring

the characters from Drawn to You:

Swanson Court series Book 1. It is told

from Landon’s point of view and

includes the events of the first few

chapters of Drawn to You.

For more information on Drawn to You,

here

For more information on Addicted to

You, the sequel to Drawn to You, go

here

cross the table from me, Aidan is

finishing the last bits of what used to be
my salmon. He’s silent, focused on his

food. He must have been ravenous, I
decide, frowning in concern. He wolfed
down his food in record time before
starting on mine.

The new play he’s directing must be

taking  too  much  of  a  toll  on  him.  When
he  was  a  teenager,  whenever  he  was
focused  on  anything,  exams,  a  school
play,  a  girl,  he  would  forget  to  eat.  I
shake  my  head  and  take  a  sip  from  my
wine. Everybody calls me heartless, and
yet,  here  I  am,  worrying  like  a  mother
hen  about  my  twenty  four  year  old
brother.

Aidan drops his fork and picks up his

glass of wine, taking a long sip as he
leans back on his chair. His gaze goes to
glass wall of the restaurant, from which

the  city  lights  can  be  seen  shining  like
decorations  on  an  endless  Christmas
tree.  He  doesn’t  say  anything,  and
neither  do  I.  When  we  have  these
dinners,  verbal  communication  is  not
usually the priority.

My thoughts are interrupted by a

waitress,  young,  with  long  black  hair
and honey toned skin. She’s slender as a
bone, but adequately filled out in all the
right  places.  She  walks  towards  our
table,  holding  a  bottle  of  wine  with  a
napkin at the base. I watch as she passes
by,  detached  in  my  assessment  of  her
assets, but as she crosses Aidan’s line of
vision, I see his interest perk, and he sits
up,  only  a  little,  but  enough  to  make  me
smile in amusement.

“You can’t have grown tired of all the

talented girls on Broadway already,” I
say with a small smirk.

“Impossible,” Aidan replies matter-

of-factly, “New ones keep arriving every
day.”  His  eyes  are  still  on  the  waitress,
who’s  behind  me  now,  but  right  in  his
line  of  vision.  With  obvious  reluctance,
he turns his gaze back to me. Looking at
him  is  like  looking  in  a  mirror,  at  a
younger,  more  carefree  reflection.  “I’m
allowed to appreciate beautiful women,”
he says with a shrug, “even the ones who
can’t sing and dance.”

“Appreciate away,” I chuckle. “I’ve

been  hearing  good  things  about  your
play.”  It’s  his  first  time  directing  a  play
on  Broadway.  Off  Broadway,  yes,  a

couple of successful ones, but this is his
first big outing, and while I have no
doubt that he will be do great, I want to
be sure he feels the same way.

“There’s just been one viewing.

Nobody knows anything yet.” He
frowns. “I don’t want to talk about the
play. How’s the hotel?”

“Running.” The Swanson Court is our

family legacy. The multi-story hotel was
built  in  the  forties,  soon  after  the  war
ended,  by  my  great-grandfather,  Gabriel
Swanson.  A  few  years  later,  he  almost
lost  it,  but  my  grandfather,  Alexander
Court,  saved  the  hotel  and  used  his
money to turn it into a world-class name
in  luxury.  He  also  married  Lily
Swanson,

Gabriel’s

daughter,

and

changed the name of the hotel to the
Swanson Court Hotel.

I own it. Most of it anyway, Aidan

has his shares, but it’s mainly mine, and I
run it too. In the ten years since my father
died, I’ve expanded the brand across the
country and made the Swanson Court
name synonymous with luxury living.

“I’m sorry I forgot.” Aidan says

suddenly.

I know what he’s talking about. “It

doesn’t  matter,”  I  say.  “I  couldn’t  care
less if it’s my birthday.” I remember the
headline from one of the news magazines
I’d  seen  in  the  morning,  ‘Hotel
Magnate  turns  twenty  nine!’  It  had
screamed in bold font, with a picture of
me  leaving  some  society  event.  Hotel

Magnate.  When  had  that  become  my
name?  “I’m  just  glad  we’re  having
dinner  together.”  I  continue,  as  Aidan
empties  his  wineglass,  “Next  week  I’ll
be in San Francisco, and you’ll be knee-
deep  in  the  murky  depths  of  perfecting
your play.”

“You’ll be here for opening night

though,” he asks. Suddenly he looks like
a child again, hopeful. Is Daddy coming
back?

I blink, then chuckle, banishing the

memory. “Of course.”

He grins, “If it bombs, at least you’ll

be there to take me to a place where I
can get well and truly wasted.”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t bomb.”
“Well if it does, I want to wake up in

a suite in Vegas with no memory, and at
least three call girls who won’t care that
I’ve forgotten their names.”

“If everyone got that after a bad

show,” I say with a laugh. “I think we’d
see more of them.” I pause, and watch as
Aidan’s eyes find the slender waitress
again. “Call girls though,” I remark.
“You must be losing your touch.”

He turns back to me and grins.

“Maybe I’ve learned that the only
women who understand the term no-
strings-attached are those who expect to
get paid.”

He may have a point, I concede, my

mind  going  to  Cecily.  Cecily  Fenstein,
curator  at  one  of  the  bigger  private
galleries.  We’d  met  through  mutual

friends,  and  she  assured  me  that  she
didn’t want commitment either. That had
only lasted three months before the usual
questions  began.  Where  are  we  going
with  this?  Where  do  you  see  our
relationship  going?  And  finally,  the
ultimatum. She’d asked me to commit to
her  or  lose  her,  so  I’d  gone  with  the
second  option.  I  don’t  like  hurting
women,  and  the  sheen  of  tears  in  her
eyes  when  she  told  me  that  she  hoped
she would never see me again still feels
like an indictment.

But she’ll get over it. For women like

her,  it’s  not  the  man  that  matters,  but
what  he  represents.  The  money,  the
prestige,  and  the  diamond  ring.  Some
other  guy  will  tick  those  boxes  for  her

soon  enough,  and  as  for  me,  I’ll  find
someone  else,  and  enjoy  what  I  can  get
before  the  demands  for  commitment  get
unbearable.

“You have a point,” I tell Adrian. “At

least with a hooker everyone gets what
they expect.”

He chuckles, and when he looks at

me, there’s a familiar, mischievous glint
in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll get you one as a
birthday present,” he suggests.

I wouldn’t put it past him. “Thanks,” I

say firmly, “but I’m sure I can manage.”

He just shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

My apartment is at the top of the

Swanson  Court.  Three  thousand  square
feet  of  space  that  I  don’t  need,  spread
out  over  two  floors.  It’s  vast  and  silent,
and the sense of solitude it provides can
be overwhelming to others, but I like it.
I’ve  never  been  the  kind  of  man  who’s
afraid to be alone.

Outside, the city is a mass of shapes

and  light.  Up  here,  I  can’t  hear  the
sounds of cars and people, but I can hear
the  wind,  whistling  and  forceful.
Forceful. The word dances around in my
mind. Forceful, Ruthless, Single-minded.
The  words  the  Press  love  to  use  when
they  describe  me.  Cold,  heartless,
unfeeling. The words the women prefer.
All  the  words  that  reduce  me  from

Landon Alexander Court, brother, friend
and whatever else I am, to just ‘Hotel
Magnate.’

Do I mind? I never did before. Not in

the years I spent planning how to expand
the  scope  of  what  my  father  left  to  me.
Not in the years I worked to engrave the
name  of  Swanson  Court  in  every  mind
interested  in  luxury  living,  and  even
those  who  were  not.  I  have  expanded
what  my  great-grandfather  built  and
made  it  greater  than  either  him,  my
grandfather  or  even  my  father  ever
dreamed.

So I am single minded, I am forceful,

I am determined, but I rescued Swanson
Court from the brink of bankruptcy when
my father died, and I am pushing further

than even he had ever dared to imagine.
If being ruthless is what it takes, then I’ll
do it all over again.

Taking another sip of my brandy, I

listen  to  the  ice  cubes  chink  against  the
glass as I lower it from my lips. Against
the silence, I can almost hear the sounds
from  my  memories,  of  this  silent
apartment  filled  with  light  and  laughter.
My  parents,  the  way  they  used  to  be  a
long  time  ago.  Aidan,  running  around
and sneaking off to torment hotel staff by
turning up in places he wasn’t supposed
to be. Love, and family.

All that’s left of that now is me, and

Aidan, now a man, no longer the
reckless rebel he used to be.

I think of my parents again and drain

my  glass,  turning  away  from  the
windows,  suddenly  restless.  I  need  a
woman,  if  only  to  distract  me  from
thinking  about  the  past.  Cecily  would
have  been  perfect,  but  I  can’t  call  her
now.  The  last  thing  I  want  is  for  her  to
imagine  that  her  ultimatum  is  working.
I’ll have to find someone else. Someone
who won’t be interested in commitment,
at least for a while.

I place my empty glass on a coffee

table  and  pick  up  my  jacket  from  the
back of a chair where I’d draped it when
I  came  in  earlier,  deciding  to  go
downstairs to talk to the hotel manager. I
still have to thank the kitchen staff for the
birthday  cake  that’s  now  chilling  in  my
fridge.  That’ll  distract  me  from  my

thoughts, if only for a while.

I shrug on the jacket and walk to the

foyer,  towards  the  elevator.  It’s  not  a
private  elevator,  but  the  call  button  for
the  penthouse  overrides  all  other
instructions, so once I’m in it, it doesn’t
stop on any floor but mine. On my floor,
the  doors  don’t  open  unless  a  special
passcode  is  entered  from  inside  the  car,
or the call button is pressed from inside
my apartment.

Once in the foyer, I press the button,

expecting  to  wait,  but  I’m  surprised
when  the  doors  slide  open  immediately.
I  look  up,  surprised,  and  immediately,
my  surprise  turns  to  a  mixture  of  shock,
appreciation,  and  something  else…
something  wild  and  insistent  that  flares

to life inside me with a force that I can’t
quite explain. Inside the elevator, there’s
a  girl.  She’s  slender,  with  pale  skin,
beautiful red hair flecked with gold, and
green eyes fringed with long dark lashes.
She  has  a  good  figure,  shown  off  by  a
flattering green dress, the same color as
her eyes, which are right now trained on
me,  her  expression  a  curious  mixture  of
relief and apprehension.

My first thought, before I remember

Aidan, and his promise to give me a
hooker as a birthday present is, who the
fuck is she, and what in God’s name is
she doing here.

My second thought, after I remember

Aidan, and allow my eyes to linger on
the body under her dress is, ‘I’ll deal

he’s staring at me as if she’s not quite

sure  that  she  wants  to  come  inside  the
apartment.  In  my  imagination,  hookers
are  confident,  brassy  creatures,  but  this
girl,  she  looks  like  she  needs  me  to  put

an arm around her and whisper
reassurances in her ear.

“Good evening,” her voice is halting,

unsure. Something in the voice makes me
want  to  pause,  to  ask  if  everything  is
alright,  but  I  shut  it  down,  concentrating
instead  on  the  way  the  material  of  her
dress  skims  over  her  full  breasts.
Already,  my  body  is  hardening,  my
fingers tingling with a need to touch her.
Her  eyes  land  on  my  face  again,  and
beneath

the

apprehension,

see

something familiar in her eyes. Lust.

“Well,” I say slowly, my eyes

skimming over her body again, “You’re
not what I would have chosen, but you’ll
do.”

She doesn’t reply, and her eyes stay

trained  on  my  face.  I  step  back  so  she
can  come  inside  the  apartment,  and  she
follows  me,  moving  out  of  the  elevator
and into the foyer, before pausing to look
at me, a confused expression on her face.

“Come in.” I say again, wondering at

her hesitation. “I won’t bite.” Then with
a smile to put her at ease, I add, “Unless
you want me to.”

That does it. I sense it as she relaxes,

and  I  lead  her  into  the  living  room,
shrugging off my jacket, and offering her
a  seat.  Her  green  eyes  are  wide  and
fixed  on  me,  and  I  start  to  wonder  what
she’s thinking. “Would you like a drink?”
I ask. “Brandy, Water, Wine…?”

“Brandy,” she replies.
Going over to the bar to pour the

drinks, I can feel her eyes on me. I can’t
shake  the  feeling  that  I’m  missing
something, but I don’t want to delve too
much  into  it.  I  want  her.  I  can  already
imagine how her skin would feel against
my  fingers.  I  can  already  imagine  those
eyes closed in ecstasy as she comes. It’s
all  I  can  do  not  to  pull  that  green  dress
up  to  her  waist  and  fuck  her  over  the
sofa,  but  I’m  not  an  excited  teenager  at
his first sexual experience, although right
now, I almost feel like one.

When I turn back to her, she’s looking

at  the  pictures  on  the  wall  -  an  old
family  portrait,  my  mother’s  ballerina
picture,  and  a  few  others.  I  pause  to
admire  the  slender  curve  of  her  neck,
and  that  hair…  I  want  to  plunge  my

fingers into it. I breathe, willing the
straining hardness in my pants to hold on
just a little bit longer. I walk towards
her. “Here,” I say, offering her the drink.

She turns to me, and her eyes linger

on  the  glass  before  she  reaches  for  it,
slowly,  almost  gingerly.  Her  fingers
close  around  the  glass  and  brush  mine,
and  I  stiffen  involuntarily,  taken  aback
by the jolt I felt from that small touch.

Taking a breath, I sit beside her on the

sofa. Her dress has hiked up, exposing a
lot more of her smooth thighs. My nose
fills with her scent, peach shampoo, and
a hint of perfume, and my body responds
by hardening some more.

It’s not helping that her eyes are

lingering on my face in a way that makes

me want to take the glass from her and
get down to business. “You like ballet?”
I ask, trying to stay cool. I’d much rather
be discovering what her luscious pink
lips taste like.

“Hmm,” she replies, looking confused

again.

Even that unfocused sound is sexy. I

breathe again and gesture at the picture
of my mother on the wall. “You seemed
interested in the picture.”

“Well, I like ballet, as much as any

little  girl  who  ever  wanted  to  wear  a
tutu.”  She  laughs,  and  I  wonder  if  she’s
nervous.  It’s  ridiculous,  but  somehow,  I
feel  nervous  too.  “But  I  was  looking  at
the  quote  from  the  picture,”  she
continues,  “It’s  from  one  of  my  favorite

poems.”

To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew

Marvell.  My  mother  had  loved  that
poem.  I  quote  the  first  line,  smiling  at
her. “But you’re not coy, are you?” I ask.
“That  would  be  inconsistent  with  your
profession.”

She frowns and I imagine that maybe

she minds being reminded that she’s a
hooker. Why are we still talking? I
wonder. I’m aching to fuck her. By now,
I should be discovering the body beneath
that green dress, working on this lust that
seems to be growing with every second.

Her voice snaps me out of my carnal

thoughts. “The woman in the poem,” she
says, “Was she being coy, or careful?
Many people have tossed caution to the

wind and surrendered to passion, and yet
come to regret it later.”

I couldn’t care less about Andrew

Marvell’s  coy  mistress.  Right  now,  I’m
fighting  the  urge  to  pick  this  girl  up,
carry her over my shoulder to the nearest
bed and bury myself inside her warmth. I
can’t  remember  the  last  time,  if  ever,  a
woman  got  me  this  hot  without  even  so
much as a touch.

Calm down, I tell myself. Then to her.

“You’re absolutely right. Though only
my brother would find a hooker who
talks about poetry on the job.”

Immediately the words are out of my

mouth,  she  starts  to  choke  on  her  drink.
Momentarily  setting  aside  my  lust,  I
hurry  to  the  bar  and  return  with  a  glass

of water. “Here,” I take her drink from
her and give her the water, “drink this.”

She takes a few sips of water without

looking  at  me.  Why  is  she  so  quiet?  I
don’t  know  much  about  hookers,  but  the
women I usually spend time with go out
of their way to show me how clever and
sophisticated they are. I watch her for a
moment  as  she  looks  everywhere  but  at
me, then I reach down and take her free
hand  in  mine.  It’s  small  and  soft,  and  at
the contact, there’s that jolt again.

“Are you alright?” I ask.
She licks her lips and I almost let out

a groan.

“I’m fine,” she says, after a long

pause. A small smile touches her lips. “I
drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”

“Good.” I take the water from her and

set it down on the coffee table. “What’s
your name?” I ask.

“Rachel.”
Rachel, I repeat the name silently in

my mind. It suits her. “I’m Landon.”

She smiles at me. She still looks

uncertain, but I don’t allow myself the
luxury of wondering why.

“Did Aidan tell you it was my

birthday?”

“Yes,” she says.
I nod. “What are your rates?”
She hesitates, and I understand why.

It’s bad manners to ask the value of a gift
after all, but I’d like to know. “It’s
already been taken care of,” she replies.

“Of course. But tell me anyway.”

She tells me. It’s an impressive sum.

“My brother is being very generous,” I
say, “So… what do I get for that?”

She pauses. “The whole night.”
My fingers tingle in anticipation.

“Anything I want?”

Her voice is a whisper. “Anything

you want.”

Perfect. I get up from the sofa, unable

to  wait  any  longer.  “Follow  me,”  I  tell
her,  going  towards  the  stairs  and  up  to
one  of  the  guest  bedrooms.  We’re
already  there  when  I  realize  how  ill-
equipped  I  am  for  an  encounter  with  a
prostitute. I usually keep my rendezvous
with  women  away  from  this  particular
apartment.  Mainly  because  of  the
memories  it  holds.  What  that  means,

right now, is that if she doesn’t have
condoms, I’m going to end up having sex
with my hand.

“You have condoms?” I ask her.
She pauses, and my stomach starts to

contract in dread. Then she retrieves a
roll from her purse and hands them to
me.

I walk into the room and toss them on

the  bed  before  sitting  on  the  armchair
close  to  the  bed.  I’m  trying  my  best  to
stay  cool,  but  my  fingers  are  tingling,
aching  to  tear  off  her  clothes  and  fuck
her  till  she  can’t  stand.  She’s  still
standing  by  the  door,  looking  like  she’s
not  sure  what  to  do.  I  motion  for  her  to
move  towards  me,  and  when  she  a  few
feet from me, I raise a hand to stop her.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.
Slowly, she unzips her dress, while

my whole body tightens in anticipation.
Under the dress is a black lace bra and
panties. Her breasts are full, her stomach
flat. Her legs in her high heels are long,
and I can already imagine them wrapped
around my waist.

She looking at me. Waiting for me to

say something. “All your clothes.” I
clarify, watching as she unhooks her bra
and her beautiful pink-tipped breast spill
out.

My cock is straining in my pants, hard

and insistent. My eyes fix on her nipples,
watching  them  harden.  She  bends  to
pulls  down  her  panties,  and  when  she
straightens,  I  can’t  look  away  from  the

perfection that’s her body.

“Get on the bed,” I manage.
She walks over to the bed, her breasts

swaying with every step. I want to get up
and  throw  her  onto  the  bed,  spread  her
legs  and  taste  her.  The  thought  takes  me
closer  to  the  edge.  I  get  up,  and  start  to
take  off  my  clothes.  “Take  off  your
shoes, Rachel,” I say. “Pull up your legs
and spread them, I want to see you touch
yourself.”

She does as I say, her fingers slipping

between her legs, rubbing over every
spot I have to fight the urge to cover with
my tongue. She moans, her head falling
back as she closes her eyes.

I tear at my buttons, watching her

fingers hungrily, and yet also needing to

see the look in her eyes. “Open your
eyes,” I tell her. “Don’t close them.
Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

She nods, and I rip off the rest of my

clothes, watching her eyes cloud as she
looks at me. She moans again just as I
pull off my briefs. My cock is rock hard,
tight and aching with the need to replace
the finger she’s right now slipping inside
herself.

Fuck. I roll on a condom and kneel on

the bed between her legs. Her fingers
are still moving and I cover them with
mine, taking over as I palm her cunt and
slip two fingers inside her.

She’s wet, and soft, and responsive. I

feel her body, warm and slick, tighten
around my fingers. Her groan is soft and

needy, and as I start to move my fingers,
she moves in time with me, driving her
hips into my hand. She’s so hot, so eager,
and it’s so arousing. “Don’t stop,” she
moans, “oh please don’t stop.”

As if I would. My cock is at the point

of  pain,  but  still  I  wait,  and  plunge
another  finger  inside  her.  Her  body
stiffens,  jerking  off  the  bed  as  she
comes.

I can’t wait anymore. As soon as the

first  wave  of  her  orgasm  is  over,  I  pull
out  my  fingers,  grab  hold  of  her  legs,
spreading  them  wider  as  I  bury  myself
deep inside her warmth.

Sweet Jesus! She’s fucking tight, and

so hot. She feels so fucking good.

I barely feel her legs wrapping

around  my  waist.  All  I  can  feel  is  the
need  to  thrust  into  her  again  and  again,
relishing  the  pleasure  as  her  heat
surrounds  my  cock,  hungry,  demanding
everything.  I  hear  her  moan  as  her  body
stiffens again, tightening around me, and
squeezing  everything  from  me.  I  lose
myself,  groaning  as  I  come  with  an
intensity that I’ve never felt before.

y heart continues to pound against my

chest like a sledgehammer while I try to
catch  my  breath.  When  I  finally  do,  I
release her legs and pull out from inside
her,  feeling  her  body  shudder  and  pulse
tightly around me. She lets out a soft sigh
and  falls  back  on  the  pillows,  her  eyes
heavy.  They  follow  me  across  the  room
as  I  take  care  of  the  condom  before
returning to the bed to join her.

We’re both silent. I hand her a tissue

from the box on the nightstand, turning
away while she cleans herself up.

Who knew sex with a hooker could

be so mind-blowing?

She’s still staring at me, her green

eyes almost dreamy. I have an impulsive
and insane urge to stroke her face, to

kiss her full pink lips, and run my hands
over her smooth skin.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she says

suddenly, and then she chuckles, a small
soft sound that for some reason makes
me want to smile.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I

reply. “I can’t feel mine either.”

Her chuckle turns into a laugh, and a

dimple  appears  on  her  right  cheek,  just
the  one.  I  find  myself  staring,  and  when
the  laugh  turns  into  a  small  smile,  my
eyes  travel  down  to  her  nipples,  hard
and  pink,  and  I  feel  myself  getting  hard
again.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes back to

her face. “Go on.”

“Why would someone who looks like

you ever need a hooker?”

“Looks like me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I

mean. Someone as hot as you.”

I’ve been described as good-looking

by  many  people,  but  hearing  her  say  it
makes  me  grin  like  a  fool.  “Not  to
mention  devastating  in  bed,”  I  add,  still
grinning.

“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I tease, “but you said you

couldn’t feel your legs.”

She sighs. “Okay, devastating in bed,”

she chuckles. “Why would you ever
need a hooker?”

“Are all your clients unattractive?” I

ask, suppressing the sharp stab of

jealousy that accompanies the thought of
her with any other man.

She pauses. “Yes,” she says finally,

“or busy, or just adventurous.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m busy and

adventurous.”

She doesn’t reply. I find myself

searching for a topic, anything, so we
can keep talking. It’s ridiculous. I’m not
some average guy on a first date who has
to pull out all the stops to keep a girl
interested.

“Do you want another drink?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine,

thanks.”

I sit up, looking at her face. Where

did I hear that hookers don’t kiss? I want
to kiss her. To taste her lips. I watch her

eyes travel down to my cock, and back
to my face. A faint blush stains her
cheeks.

“You’re not tired,” I ask, “are you?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” I run my hand down the side

of  her  body,  from  her  shoulder  to  her
hip, and feel her tremble slightly. Then I
move  my  hand  to  her  back,  sliding  it
over  her  soft  skin  until  I’m  cupping  her
butt.

Her skin is flushed already, and when

I look at her face, her mouth is open, her
breath  coming  hard.  I  smile  at  her,  then
turn  her  over  so  she’s  lying  on  her
stomach,  her  butt  facing  me.  I  run  my
hands  over  the  supple  skin,  before
kneading  her  gently.  She  makes  a  sound

that’s anywhere between a moan and a
sigh.

Pulling her up on her hands and

knees, I reach between her legs, pleased
to find that she’s soaking wet. She moans
loudly  when  I  run  a  finger  over  her  wet
clit,  and  it  turns  into  a  groan  when  I
plunged  my  fingers  deep  inside  her
warmth.

She lets out a soft moan, and I move

my fingers, out, then in again. “You’re so
wet,” I tell her, “so wet and so hot.”

Her body spasms as she tightens

around  my  fingers,  demanding  more.
Suddenly  I’m  impatient  to  be  inside  her
again.  I  reach  for  the  condoms,  rolling
one on, as fast as I can, then I take hold
of  her  waist,  positioning  her  so  I  can

slide slowly inside her.

This time I take it slow, letting the

sensations wash over me. She whimpers
softly as I move, her fingers gripping the
sheets.  I  find  myself  wondering  again  at
how  tight  she  is,  how  hot,  how  good  it
feels to be inside her. I want it to last as
long  as  possible,  so  I  flex  my  hips
slowly,  sliding  in,  then  out  again,  until
she’s  pulsing  uncontrollably  around  my
aching cock. Her body starts to shudder,
the  hot  clenching  in  her  core  urging  me
deeper. I bend over her, losing control as
I  plunge  faster  and  deeper  inside  her
heat.  I  hear  her  scream,  and  feel  the
contractions  as  she  comes,  and  I  reach
for  her  breasts,  teasing  her  hard  nipples
as  her  body  continues  to  convulse

around  me.  Leaning  back  up,  I  grip  her
thighs and lift her legs off the bed, losing
control as I thrust deeper into her pulsing
heat.  Vaguely  I  hear  her  cry  out  as  she
climaxes again, and the pleasure rises in
my  brain  until  I  can’t  take  it  anymore.  I
groan  loudly  and  slam  into  her,  almost
losing my mind as I come.

I release her legs and collapse on top

of her. She’s breathing deeply, her body
glowing with sweat. I pull out of her and
get rid of the condom before collapsing
back on the bed.

“Now, I definitely can’t feel my

legs,” she pants.

“Me neither.” I sigh, and surprise

myself by pressing a kiss on her
shoulder. She smiles at me and I smile

back. Who knew sex with a whore
would be this good?

The silence stretches as our breathing

returns to normal. “The elevator doesn’t
require  a  code  to  leave.”  I  inform  her,
sure  that  she’s  thinking  of  leaving.  “Just
press the call button.” When she doesn’t
say  anything,  I  turn  to  look  at  her,  and
she has a strange look on her face that I
can’t  decipher.  I  get  up  and  retrieve  my
wallet  from  my  pants.  Pulling  out  a
couple  of  bills,  I  leave  the  on  the
nightstand  on  her  side.  “I  know  you’ve
been paid,” I tell her, “but consider that
a bonus.”

She gives me a small smile, but she

still doesn’t say anything. I imagine that
she’s tired and drowsy. I know I am. I

smile at her before laying back down on
my side. “You can leave when you’re
less tired,” I say, “and don’t forget to
leave your number.”

I’m a light sleeper, so I’m surprised

that I don’t hear her leave. When I wake
up hours later, she’s already gone. The
cash is still on the table, and there’s no
number anywhere.

cross from me on a conference table in

his  lawyer’s  office,  a  petulant  Evans
Sinclair  is  signing  the  papers  that  will
ensure  that  he  can  no  longer  go  around
badmouthing  me  to  anyone  who  will
listen, as he has made a point to do in the
few  months  since  I  purchased  the  hotel
his father built from him.

His petulance won’t last long though,

I think, more than a little disgusted with
him. As soon as he’s out of here, he’ll go
back  to  spending  the  money  he  made
from  the  sale,  as  well  as  the  small
settlement  that’s  part  of  the  contract
we’re  now  signing,  on  exotic  cars,  fast
women and the never-ending party that’s
his  life.  He  spent  the  years  since  his
father  died  paying  lip  service  to  his
position  as  the  president  of  the

management  board  of  the  Gold  Dust
Hotel,  but  as  soon  the  other  board
members  forced  him  to  sell  rather  than
watch  the  hotel  die  a  painful  death,  I
became the villain, at least to him.

“Mr. Court.” The lawyer gets up as

soon as the signatures are on paper, and
extends a hand to me.

I rise from my seat, leaving Alex

Haven, my lawyer to retrieve the papers.
I shake Sinclair’s lawyer’s hand. “Thank
you.” I tell him. Then turn to Evans.

He gets up and takes my hand in a

soft, indecisive grip. “Fuck You
Landon,” he says resentfully.

I shrug, and redo the button on my

jacket, turning away from the table.
Before I get to the glass doors, I spy the

Gold  Dust,  soon  to  be  Gold  Dust  –  A
Swanson  Court  Hotel,  through  the  floor
to ceiling windows. The retention of the
old  name  had  been  the  condition  of  the
board  members,  all  members  of  the
extended  Sinclair  family.  I  would  take
total control, but keep the original name
of  the  hotel.  I  had  no  problem  agreeing.
Before  Evans,  the  Gold  Dust  name  had
been one to be reckoned with.

Already, my team are working,

refurbishing

the

old

hotel

and

transforming it into an establishment
worthy of the Swanson Court name. In a
few weeks, we’ll open for business.

Downstairs, the hired car is already

waiting outside the main doors. My
chauffeur Joe, in the driver seat. He

looks nondescript, graying hair in a crew
cut,  and  ordinary  black  suit,  but  he’s  a
security  expert,  deadly  with  a  firearm
and  a  skilled  martial  artist.  With  him
around.  I  don’t  need  any  other
bodyguards.

Not that I can’t take care of myself.

On good days, I can outshoot Joe. And I
still do mixed martial arts, but Joe’s job
is to make sure I never need to use those
skills.

Alex catches up to me before I get

into the car. He’s a few years older than
I am, and is a partner at Fincher and
Haven. The name of the law firm has
changed

since

they

were

grandfather’s lawyers back in the day.
I’ve known Alex for years, since he

started working there as an associate,
and he’s one of the people I know I can
trust to get results.

“I have a meeting with the interior

designer,” he tells me. “So I’ll be in
New York later tonight.

“Fine,” I say. I already met with most

the

people

working

the

refurbishment before my meeting with
Sinclair but there are still some
legalities Alex has to iron out. “I want a
full report,” I tell him.

He nods. “Are you returning right

away? You’re not staying at least a
night?”

I almost smile. Of course, he would

expect me to stay, to have a date ready
for my short visit to the city by the bay.

I shake my head, a brief image of red

hair and deep green eyes flashing
through my mind. “No, I have a few
things to do in New York.”

“Good then. I’ll let you know when I

arrive.”

I get into the car and Joe starts the

engine. “Airport?” He asks, looking at
me through the rearview.

I nod.
He starts the drive to my waiting

plane, and my mind goes back to the
image that’s been haunting my mind for
the better part of three days.

It wasn’t that she was more beautiful

than  other  women  I’ve  been  with.  She
was  good-looking,  pretty  even,  but  I
knew  many  better-looking  girls.  Her

body wasn’t the best I’d ever seen
either, but in my memory, it felt perfect
in every way.

I feel the now familiar tightening in

my  pants  that’s  become  the  norm
whenever  I  think  of  her,  or  remember
that night. Even now, I can still hear the
sound  of  her  moans,  like  an  aural
memory that won’t go away.

Get a hold of yourself, Landon. She’s

a hooker. She’s probably been with five
more men between then and now.

“Sir?”
I realize that I’ve spoken aloud.

“Nothing, Joe.” I say. “I’m just thinking.”

He turns back to the road.
I retrieve my phone from my jacket

pocket and call Aidan. It’s time to do

something  about  this.  She  didn’t  leave
her card, her number, or anything else to
contact  her  by,  which  was  bad  business
on  her  part.  That  doesn’t  worry  me,
though. I’ll just go ahead and ask Aidan
how to find her again. This time, I’ll pay
for  as  much  of  her  time  as  I  need  to  get
her face and her body out of my mind.

Aidan doesn’t pick on the first ring,

and on the second. On the third, the
phone rings twice before I hear his
voice.

“Landon.” He sounds tired. “Sup”
“I take it you’re in rehearsals,” I say.
“You have no idea,” he sighs. “I have

to  work  with  this  nineteen  year  old
Broadway  princess  whose  dad  is
producing  the  show.  If  she  wasn’t  so

talented, I’d fire her and tell her dad to
go to hell.”

I chuckle. “If she’s talented, then

what’s the problem?”

“Where do I start!” he exclaims.

“Anyway, forget about all that. What’s
up?”

“Nothing. I’m in San Francisco.”
“Sinclair taken care of?”
“Yes.”
“And work on the new hotel is going

smoothly?”

The questions make me smile. Mainly

because Aidan has no real interest in
hotels or anything that doesn’t have to do
with performing arts. “Yes, everything
went fine.”

“Well congratulations,” he says.

“Thanks. But that’s not why I called. I

need to know more about the girl you
sent over to my apartment.”

“What girl?”
“On my birthday,” I clarify. “The

hooker.”

There’s a short pause on his side. “I

have no idea what you’re talking about.

I snort. “Aidan, the hooker you sent to

my apartment as a birthday present.”

“Landon, you told me you weren’t

interested, remember?”

“Since when have you ever listened

to me?” I ask. “Stop playing around,
Aidan, I need her number.”

“I’m not playing around.” he insists.
He sounds sincere, and I know when

Aidan is lying. “So you didn’t send a

hooker to my apartment.

“No.” he pauses. “Let me get this

straight. Some girl showed up at your
apartment and you had sex with her
thinking she was the hooker I promised.”

“Yes.” I grind out.
“Wooohoo.” He crows. “I don’t even

know if that’s funny or scary,” he says.
“Was she cute? Did you use protection?”

“Oh, shut up.”
“She could have been a thief… or an

assassin.” He laughs. “This is precious.”

I listen to him laugh some more.

“Why do you want to find her anyway?”
he asks.

Because I can’t stop thinking about

her. I pause, catching myself before I say
the words.“I have no idea,” I say

instead. Why don’t you go back to your
Broadway princess and show her who’s
the director?”

He’s still laughing when I cut the

connection, but I’m frowning. If Aidan
didn’t send her, then who was she, and
why was she at my apartment?

It’s late in the evening when I get

back to New York, after spending most
the five-hour flight trying to work, while
being constantly distracted by thoughts
of Rachel. Who is she? Why was she in
the elevator on my floor? Why didn’t she
take the money, and why didn’t she leave

her number?

mind

churning

with

possibilities.  Was  she  a  thief?  Unlikely,
apart  from  a  few  paintings,  there  aren’t
any  items  of  immense  value  in  the
apartment,  and  since  I  didn’t  notice  any
paintings missing, I could rule that out. A
corporate  spy  sent  by  a  competitor  to
steal  information  about  my  business,
maybe,  but  then  her  effort  would  have
been  in  vain,  I  don’t  keep  sensitive
information  lying  around,  and  the  level
of  protection  on  my  computer  ensures
that  nobody  else  can  log  in.  Now  that  I
think about it, I realize how careless I’d
been.  If  Aidan  had  sent  her,  someone
would have called from the front desk to
confirm  from  me  that  I  was  expecting  a

guest, but I’d been too intent on fucking
her to think of things like that.

Could she have been lost? If she was,

why she didn’t just tell me instead of…

Instead letting me think she was a

whore and… the images of that night fill
my head. Her breasts spilling out of her
bra when she took it off, the thick cloud
of  gold  and  red  hair,  how  wet  and  tight
she’s been around my cock, her response
to  my  touch,  her  soft  moans…  as
annoyed  as  I  am  by  all  the  unexplained
questions,  my  body  reacts  to  the
memories.  My  fingertips  clench,  aching
to  touch  her  again,  to  relive  the  images
in my head. I want to know who she is, I
want  to  know  why  she  was  at  my
apartment,  and  yes,  I  want  to  fuck  her

again.

As Joe navigates through the crowded

streets,  I  wrestle  with  my  impatience  to
get  back  to  the  hotel  and  find  out  what
really  happened  on  Friday  night.  I’ve
already  called  the  Jed  Fray,  head  of
security,  to  review  the  security  footage
from  the  elevators.  I  resist  the  urge  to
call him again. I know he’ll let me know
as soon as he has something.

Almost as if I’ve communicated my

thoughts to Jed, my phone begins to
vibrate. I glance and the screen, then
answer it.

“Yes,”
“We reviewed the footage,” he says

without preamble. “The subject came
into the lobby at a few minutes past eight

and attended a birthday party for a
photographer called Chadwick Black at
the Oyster Restaurant.”

“and?”
“There seems to have been a heated

discussion  between  the  subject  and
another man outside the restaurant. After
that  she  took  the  elevator  to  the  ground
floor.”  He  pauses.  “Instead  of  exiting
when  the  elevator  opened,  she  seems  to
have  entered  the  button  for  the
penthouse.  We  have  the  footage  of  her
leaving  your  apartment  early  in  the
morning,  but  she  went  straight  outside
and took a taxi.”

“The man outside the restaurant, do

you know who he is?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Find out everything you can, I want

to know who she is. Check the guest list
for the party, then do a social media
check.”

“Already on it.”
“Let me know when you have

something.”

Later, when I’m in my study

reviewing  the  videos  the  security
department sent to me, I watch her argue
outside the restaurant with a dark haired
man.When  she  walks  away  from  him,
she  enters  the  elevator,  where  the
footage shows her wiping tears from her
eyes.  She  didn't  even  look  at  the  panel
when  she  pressed  the  button  for  the
penthouse,  and  At  my  floor,  she  seems
genuinely  confused,  as  she  vainly  taps

the buttons on the elevator panel,
perhaps trying to make it go back to the
ground floor.

My desk phone rings. It’s Jed.
“I’m coming up.” He informs me.
“Fine.”
He lets himself into the apartment and

comes to meet me in the study, knocking
discreetly before opening the door.

“So?” I ask him.
“We’ve been checking the names on

the guest list and hoping to find her from
there.  Then  we  identified  the  man  she
argued  with  outside  the  restaurant.  He’s
Jack  Weyland,  a  senior  editor  at  Gilt
Traveler magazine.”

He looks at me, then continues.
“He’s listed on the site as a

contributor,  along  with  a  headshot.”  He
hands  me  a  printout,  “further  along  the
page  we  have  another  headshot,  which
seems to be the subject.”

I find it almost immediately. The

gleaming  hair  stands  out,  as  well  as  the
sweet  half  smile  on  her  face.  I  read  the
name  beside  the  headshot.  Rachel
Foster. Features Associate.

I tear my eyes away from her face.

“Anything else?”

Jed nods and hands me and envelope.

“That’s all we found on her.”

I study the envelope for a moment

before I reach for it. “Thank you,” I say,
dismissing him. As he leaves, I have a
short moment of sanity when I ask myself
why I’m bothering. So what if I slept

with some girl whose last name I never
bothered to ask. Why can’t I let it go and
forget about her?

I pull out the contents of the envelope

and I have my answer. The first sheet is
a  picture  of  her,  in  color,  wearing  a  t-
shirt with her hair in a ponytail. Her arm
is  around  someone  but  that  part  of  the
picture  has  been  cropped  out.  She’s
laughing.

I stare at the sheet for a long time

before I go to the next one, where all her
information has been neatly typed.

Rachel Foster, twenty four years old,

Columbia graduate with a degree in
English Literature, features associate at
Gilt Traveler.

Jed has even included her home and

work addresses, family information, and
printouts of articles she has written for
Gilt. I stare at the contents of the
envelope, confusion giving way to anger.

Rachel Foster is going to have a lot of

explaining to do.