6
You probably think that because I’m an escort I’m easy, the kind of girl who hears a “hey, gorgeous,” throws back a shot, and drops her panties in the bar bathroom.
No, no, no. I’m not that girl, and I’m not the type who melts for a smoldering look on the street.
I swear on the patron saint of my block and on every tube of red lipstick I’ve burned through in my career.
But I’m telling you, what’s happening to me is a whole other universe.
Not like the times guys hit on me in a club swearing they were going to change my life with a watered-down rum and Coke, or the emergency fucks in a bar bathroom with a crappy eucalyptus air freshener, or those hookups that are all, “come on, whatever, what’s the difference. ”
Yeah, at work I’ve fucked a lot of women.
But that’s work. Easy, mechanical, almost like answering emails: you give what you’re supposed to give, they pay you, and you go home to a warm bed (or grab Chinese takeout to make the tragedy complete).
Zero butterflies, zero shakes, none of that “uh-oh, is that the edge of my soul brushing something or just gas?” All cold, all controlled.
And now… My stomach knots over a lunatic who’s glued to me like a psycho shadow, who holds the Olympic record for yanking stray hairs in the grocery aisle and who, on top of that, puts on this whole “I’m a lesbian Sherlock, investigate me” thing.
Who the hell buys that? Is it true? Or is she going to do voodoo with my hair and sell me on the black market?
With my luck, I’m not ruling anything out.
And she’s cocky with it. One of those girls who walks through life like you’re going to crawl after her. That makes me laugh. Me, beg her? Ha. I’d sooner sign up for quilting classes and become a nun at the Convent of Our Lady of Not Gonna Happen.
The real problem: I’m turned on. Like, please let me win the lottery and also this blonde.
I can’t think of a single sensible idea.
What do I do? Play it cool and walk away with my bargain-bin pride and my fresh nails, or dive in and let the lesbian goddess decide?
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but my body wants war.
Nat shoves me against the wall, rough and sexy.
A spike of adrenaline hits me.
She doesn’t kiss me—she goes straight for it.
And I’m not surprised. Look, with some clients I have to work the drill-sergeant routine.
Others wouldn’t dare raise their voice at me without booking it on Google Calendar.
But it’s always that: work, theater; I usually conduct the orchestra with an acrylic baton.
Here? Not a chance. Here she’s conducting, and I’m happy and soaked.
She flips me around, pins my wrists with one hand.
With the other she takes her time and doesn’t ask permission.
She hikes up my skirt and with one tug leaves me half undressed and no room to play smart.
Cool air rushes between my legs and a sigh I don’t control slips out.
I picture myself as the lead in an erotic thriller directed by Almodóvar in his wild days.
I don’t say a word. I’ve got my hands full not folding in half. My nerves buzz, pulse in my mouth, legs weak. I try to think about the IRS to kill the vibe and it doesn’t work.
Her fingers find the spot where everything lights up.
She’s got a hand you respect. She blends firmness with care.
Three seconds and I’m gone. North, south—everything flipped to airplane mode.
What an art. This should be in City Hall’s resource guide: crash course in quitting the tough act with dangerous blondes.
“You like that, huh, gorgeous,” she breathes in my ear, and then—bam—she stops. Hands off. She pulls back just a hair and leaves me with jelly legs and a doe-eyed, dazed face.
I turn toward her, all anxious, total puppy mode. The only thing I want is her mouth, but Miss Thing dodges me, moves with a smile that says, “not today—tomorrow, if you behave.”
“Told you you’d beg, babe,” she says. Her tone slides under my skin. Two urges hit me: slap her, or beg exactly the way she wants. In my head I’ve already got her cuffed with hoodie strings and on mute. In real life? Zero bravery, just hunger.
I get pissed, smooth my skirt back into place like a matador. I shoot her the after-hours-queen glare, lipstick a little crooked.
“Don’t call me ‘babe,’ okay? I’m Alaska, for the good and for the drama. And I’m not begging for anything,” I throw at her in my trashy-diva voice, even though I’m one micro-sigh from dropping at her feet. I’d rip my tongue out before giving her that pleasure.
She cracks up—literally. She leans against the wall with a smile that says, “you’re gonna be gasping, dummy,” and I put on a show of folding my arms like everything’s under control.
“Oh, sorry, Alaska,” she says my name in little sips, the idiot. “But if you keep being this cocky, it’s gonna be hard not to mess with you.”
I haul my panties back up—twisted, crooked, zero shame. I look her up and down, pissed-off face cranked up to cross-eyed, but it doesn’t sell. If wanting showed up on your forehead, mine would be in neon.
"Don’t get cocky," I snap. I cross my arms again, pout included.
Nat moves in. Slow. Boxes me in again, but she doesn’t touch me; she stops a breath from my mouth, and that perfume of hers spins my head and plants a couple of very illegal ideas between my legs.
"Not even a little begging?" she murmurs against my ear, voice low, brainwashing-soft. "Swallowing your pride is gonna blow your mind, pretty girl."
I hold her gaze. Those eyes say, “come here and forget even your bank password.” My neurons bail.
"I don’t feel like it," I shoot back in a flat voice, because my jaw is shaking.
And wouldn’t you know it, she cracks up—but quiet. Every little giggle pats down my urge to be in charge.
She takes my chin. Not hard, not gentle. Just enough to make me look. My knees signed the surrender ages ago.
"I love how stubborn you are. Relax, you’ll ask for it." She grazes my mouth without kissing me. "Every time you walk in here, I’m going to be the only thing on your mind."
Inside, I’ve been begging for half an hour, and I even find her little theater act funny. Outside, I’m still. I barely breathe; desire scrambles me. I never thought you could hate someone and want to bite them at the same time. I puff my chest and put on my best statue face, but I’m melting.
"You know what?" Chin up, full-on theater. "I don’t beg, not even if they’re handing out orgasms door-to-door. If you want something from me, you gotta work for it, you blonde devil—I don’t hand out trophies just for showing up."
Pure surrealism, girl. Me, who hands out sex like flyers, right now I feel like a rookie.
The blonde lights up. She thinks she just scored a VIP pass to put me on my knees. She steps in and pins me to the wall. You can tell she can. And that she wants to.
"Not begging, huh?" she purrs, crooked smile. "Not even when you’re so wet we’d make a puddle."
"You’re not all that," I say, except it comes out more moan than threat.
She laughs and strokes the inside of my thigh, slow. Every time she touches me, a jolt goes through me. And honestly, with every inch her hand climbs, that’s one inch less of Alaska the fighter and more of Alaska “okay, do whatever you want to me.”
"Keep holding the pose; in a minute you’ll be asking me nicely."
I hold out five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. My brain is swimming in my own fluids and my tough-girl plan goes in the trash. I give in.
"Fuck, blondie… Do it. Now."
Her smile stretches—“I already won before we started.” She lifts an eyebrow, full boss.
"That’s you begging? And here I was thinking you knew how to beg with style."
Hey, my skirt isn’t even covering anything anymore and my panties are giving me hell. My brain tries to hoist a banner that reads “No more live humiliations,” but downstairs is screaming we’ve always loved this.
"What if, instead of begging, I raise the stakes?" I manage, playing it cocky even as my voice betrays me and tangles with my breathing like I just climbed twenty flights.
Nat laughs—that “got you now, gorgeous” laugh.
She flips me with a swat, corners me, and breathes in my ear that she can’t wait to hear me ask properly, that I look like the type, that it’ll sound real pretty.
And I’m thinking I come from basic sex, all things considered—the kind where you touch, undress, and that’s it.
No ropes, no instruction manual with a Parisian preface.
And look at me, playing trained pet with this woman who gives off the vibe of putting a collar with a name tag on me.
Fine, I let off the brake. Maybe it’s time to accept the chaos, sign the waiver, and see what happens. Worst case, I end up hoarse saying a little more, please.
I try to rescue my ego, peel myself off her a hair, and play the boss. "I’m not doing theatrics. If you want something, earn it."
But the bitch just smiles, rakes me with her eyes, and makes me blush for real. She gives my ass a pinch to make it clear who gets the last word. I jump, and she uses it to press me harder into the wall.
For fuck’s sake.
She lets me go and, instead of talking, just jerks her chin like “let’s go,” and I, not sure if I’m heading up to my place or my downfall, follow her up the stairs like an idiot, praying she can’t tell even my eyelashes are shaking.
As soon as we step through the door, we run into Vega, who’s wearing her best do-not-mess-with-me face. Nat, with her height and that take-charge presence, sizes her up.
"Vega, this is Nat. Nat, this is my sister, Vega."
Nat nods with that "Oh, sure, the sister" smile, and Vega hits me with the triple-axel look: what are you doing, why is she here, why are you making weird hand signals. My brain opens the excuse editor, offers three presets, and I hit the first one.
"Nat’s a friend. She’s hanging out for a bit. Breaking-news arrival."
Vega’s eyes go cartoon-wide. And me, I’m not in the mood for a long explanation, but I know her and I don’t want drama before I get wet—literally—so I flash the TL;DR card:
"See, the blonde here is a detective. She’s been tailing me because she thought I—or you, surprise—was someone she’s hunting for her own private soap opera. Anyway, mistake, we cleared it up."
The story’s Greek to her, so I cut to the part that matters.
"And now Nat’s going to stay for a bit. In my room."
Her mouth drops open, like she’s about to gargle words and none of them come out. To head off a nagging-mom speech, I pin her with a look and a gesture that says, "Don’t start, babe, life’s short and my appetite’s long." In twin-speak, that translates to "I’m going to fuck this woman, zip it."
"Are you fucking stupid?" She grabs my arm, pulls me a step aside, and lets me go, voice low but drama cranked up. "What if she’s a psychopath? What if she steals your laptop? What if she drags us into God-knows-what?" And there she goes, squeezing my arm with that nervous-chihuahua strength.
"She’s a woman I’m going to fuck, Vega," I say, cutting it off. "I’m horny, I want to, period. So please, go take a walk and give us a minute alone."
I know Vega’s itching to give me a thirty-minute lecture, but she swallows it, grabs her jacket and the keys, and leaves with a "Be careful" that goes in one ear and only makes me hotter on the way out.
I turn to Nat, still there with a champion’s grin, and think this is life right now: a doorway, a dangerous blonde, my sister fleeing so she won’t see anything, and me two steps from a bad decision with the makings of a favorite memory.