Chapter Two
Odette
Tonight, I have an overnight booking with two best friends. Their annual bro trip, or so they said in their booking message. We’re going to dinner first, then back to my choice of hotel to fuck. I had other clients booked for today, but I rescheduled all of them. This duo will pay me more than the rest combined. Priorities, right? When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn how to balance practicality and indulgence. Obviously, I’m going to prioritize the one that makes me more. Money makes the world go ‘round. Or at least, it makes my world spin a little easier.
When I woke earlier from a memory of ending Pastor Pembroke, I needed something to pass the time. So, I curled up on my chaise and started reading. I’m officially obsessed with Sarah JD’s Insatiable Kitten series. I devoured the first two books in one sitting and almost— almost —considered canceling tonight just to move on to the third. But my needy kitty and the allure of fat stacks of cash won out. Now, I’m sitting in front of my vanity, transforming myself for tonight.
Did I mention I’m a sex worker? I mean, I did say I’m a hell of a lot sluttier now than I was before I turned, so you should have guessed. Well, there it is—the cat’s out of the bag. I get paid to bang. It’s not just about the money, though. Being a sex worker is an easy way to feed. Pleasure mingled with pain, a nibble here and there, my venom amplifying their climax to unimaginable heights. No complaints so far. Most clients are too lost in the haze of euphoria to even realize I’ve fed. To them, I’m just a kinky bitch who bites during sex. Works for me.
Checking the time, I see I’m running behind. I speed through my makeup routine, the motions automatic after decades of practice. Contour, highlight, bold lips—done. I seal everything with a generous spritz of setting spray, ensuring my face stays flawless through dinner and beyond. Standing back to admire my reflection, I decide on the perfect outfit; a brand-new black set I splurged on last week. The pants are high-waisted and flared, with intricate lace detailing that hints at skin without revealing too much. The crop top’s design is downright scandalous, connected between my breasts by three thin straps that practically dare gravity to make my C’s spill out. One false move at dinner, and the show starts early. Not that I’d mind—it’s all part of the game.
Next, I pack my trusty duffle bag—affectionately dubbed my “hoe bag.” Into it goes a small mountain of condoms (in every size, because you never know what you’re working with until you’re there), an assortment of eye masks, comfy clothes for afterward, boric acid tablets (a girl’s best friend), some butt pluggs, a couple of dildos (just in case), and a compact toiletries kit. Preparedness is key in this line of work.
Grabbing my bag, I head out the door and onto the quiet street where my car waits. Some sex workers hire drivers or bodyguards, but not me. I prefer driving myself—if things go sideways, a quick getaway is only a gas pedal away. As for safety? Let’s just say I’m my own bodyguard.
Name another woman who could rip out an attacker’s throat with her teeth. I’ll wait.
The drive downtown is uneventful. My destination is the Magnolia Luxe Hotel, a favorite among my clients, and quickly becoming a second home for me. The staff doesn’t ask questions, and the place is nice as hell. I’ve racked up enough loyalty points to reach platinum status, guaranteeing the king suite every time.
Pulling into the valet lane, I hand my keys to a nervous-looking kid who can’t be more than nineteen. His face turns crimson when I wink and toss him a casual “Thanks, sweetheart,” before striding into the lobby. Confidence is part of the job, and I’ve had almost two centuries to perfect mine.
“Odette. Long time no see. King suite again?” Sally, the front desk clerk, greets me with a knowing smile.
“You know me too well, Sally,” I reply, giving her a sly gri
She taps away at her keyboard before handing me a keycard. “All set. You know the drill—check out by eleven and call if you need anything.”
“Thanks, darling,” I say, taking the card and heading toward the elevator bank.
As I wait for the elevator, I scroll through my phone, answering messages on my app for custom videos. One client wants me to sit on a cake for five hundred bucks. Easy money. Another wants a video of me licking honey off my fingers. Kinky. Weird. Profitable.
The elevator dings, and I step inside, hitting the button for the twentieth floor. The ride is smooth and silent, save for the soft ping of each passing floor. When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by the familiar luxury of the suite-level hallway. Plush carpets, gilded sconces, and an air of exclusivity that screams money.
Sliding my keycard into the slot on the door, I step into the suite and take a moment to soak it in. The room is immaculate, as always. A massive king sized bed dominates the space, flanked by modern nightstands. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Everything is perfect.
Showtime.
I do a quick sweep of the room, ensuring everything is clean and in order. I arrange the bedside table with my essentials and toss a few condoms onto the plush comforter for easy access. Presentation matters. Satisfied, I settle onto the loveseat by the window, scrolling through my phone while waiting for their text.
It’s not long before my phone buzzes with a message from one of the guys: “In the lobby. Heading up now.”
“No need. I’ll come and get you. Think of it as the presidential treatment.”
I smirk, my fangs just barely brushing my bottom lip. This is going to be a fun night.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I head out the door. The elevator ride down feels longer than usual, the hum of the machinery blending with the faint thrum of my pulse. Or maybe it’s theirs I’m hearing already.
When I step into the lobby, my eyes immediately search for the duo from the picture they sent. But instead of two, I see one man standing near the marble fountain, scrolling through his phone. Maybe his friend is late, or parking? Shrugging off the thought, I glide across the polished floor toward the absolute sex on legs waiting for me.
“Luther?” I ask, biting my bottom lip as I approach.
He looks up, and his lips curve into a slow, cocky smile. “That’s me, baby. You must be Odette.”
I drag my gaze up and down him, taking in every delicious detail. Broad shoulders, smoldering blue eyes, blond hair styled in a slightly messy, yet deliberate way, and a presence that screams danger in all the best ways. My kitty practically purrs in approval.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
“He got caught up with work and had to cancel,” Luther says with a casual shrug. “So it’s just me, if that’s alright? Pay’s the same, and I promise I’ll make up for the missing cock.”
“Promise?” I tease, a wicked smile tugging at my lips.
“About the cock or the money, baby?” he counters, his tone dripping with confidence.
“Oh, you’ll give me the money,” I purr, stepping closer, “I’m talking about the cock.”