2. Lymsil #3
Sinking into the blue velvet sofa in her open-plan kitchen, she chewed on the inside of her cheek, her body unable to release her pent up tension, despite being ensconced among the cushions.
Beige lounge pants and a grey T-shirt hung comfortably against her curves, her hair piled into a messy bun.
Twisted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse apartment, she watched the evening settle over Canal Street.
Below, the warm white streetlights around Sackville Gardens cast long shadows over the couples on the benches, people walking their dogs, or just passing through.
Beyond the green trees and pink cherry blossoms, the bars along the canal grew steadily brighter and busier as the last of the daylight slipped away.
Tapping her fingers against the backrest, she toyed with the idea of requesting a new escort, but Remi was just too good.
It had taken two years to hone their roles into something that worked for her.
Remi was dutiful and perfectly obedient.
The mere thought of starting over with someone new was exhausting.
It had taken too long to reach this level of precision, and Greta, if she were honest, had grown to very much enjoy Remi’s aesthetic.
The sight of Remi’s strong, tattooed hands against her own pale skin pleased her.
The way Remi moved with a strength that was brimming with both obedience and forcefulness, turned her on more than she would care to admit, even to herself.
Greta never wanted gentle sex; if she wanted Remi to fuck her against a wall, she would without breaking a sweat.
The sensation of Remi’s body and skin lingered on Greta’s palms. She could almost feel Remi’s muscular arms and the way she would hold them as Remi fucked her.
Strong fingers digging into her thighs to hold her steady as Greta leaned into the safety of Remi’s firm body.
Occasionally, for a split second, she wondered if Remi could be a tender lover, but she stopped the thought the moment it entered her mind.
In her forty-nine years, Greta had never thought it possible for a woman to possess such skilled fingers, or to handle a strap-on so sublimely.
The mere image of Remi in tight Calvins, the dildo bulging beneath the cotton, was often enough to bring Greta to a climax within minutes of reaching for her vibrator.
Greta would often fight the strong urge to book Remi more often.
Although the high agency costs and hotel fees weren’t an issue financially, it was a ridiculous notion to allow it to escalate from more than once a week.
But Remi’s mouth was new. It was a complication. A beautiful complication.
Leaning forward to the low table opposite her, she closed her fingers around the stem of her wine glass.
The table was a single, massive slice of Maple, sanded and waxed to pale perfection.
It had been carved from a tree felled by a storm in Montreal, where she and her wife, Muriel, had holidayed.
A piece Muriel had commissioned a local carpenter to create and shipped home as a surprise for their fifth wedding anniversary.
Now, the grain and history of the wood glared up at her.
Running her palm over the smooth surface, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
Muriel’s face on the day she had unveiled the table was still clear and sharp in her mind.
The weight of her wife throwing herself into her arms, as they shared a kiss so deep Greta felt she’d never need oxygen again, still pressed onto her chest. The ghost of Muriel’s tongue still danced in her mouth.
Her kiss had been everything, a restorative balm that healed Greta even after the toughest days.
The perfection of her mouth was something Greta could not bear to forget, or worse, replace.
It still filled her. The memory of it and the agonising, desperate need for it still consumed her.
Drawing in a deep breath, she pressed her hand to the smooth maple, the wood cold against her palm.
Exhaling sharply, her eyes snapped open as the image of her wife—lying cold, her alabaster skin tinged blue—flashed behind her eyelids.
The heat drained from Greta’s cheeks as the phantom pressure of Muriel’s body pushed against her face; hard and still as Greta waited, head pressed to her chest, for the heartbeat she never heard or felt again.
The rhythmic beat of life was gone. There was only the A life had a habit of doing that.
She had come to accept that nothing stops when your heart is broken.
The tsunami of grief simply drags you along, the debris lodging itself in your ribs and spine as you go about life.
A life that carries on around you while you stand bleeding and broken in the middle, with no other choice but to find a way to carry on.
She kept her fingers pressed into her brows for a long minute.
Leaning back into the sofa, Greta blew out a long breath, thumbing open her phone to a WhatsApp message from the agency:
Additional Fee now payable. Please follow link to app.
Satisfied and reassured that Remi knew better than to disobey her, even when they weren't in the same room, Greta closed the screen. Tipping the wine glass to her lips, her mind immediately pivoted to work and her borderline impossible schedule. As an oncology consultant at one of the Northwest’s biggest hospitals—The Pankhurst Cancer Institute—and an honorary lecturer at The University of Manchester, Dr Greta Vincent’s life was a succession of packed hours, leaving almost no room for anything else.
Between her NHS patients, cancer research, and academic endeavours, time was her most precious and guarded commodity.
The time she spent with Remi was non-negotiable self-care, and an absolute necessity—one she was beginning to anticipate with a dangerous level of excitement.
Reaching the poured concrete kitchen island, Greta set her glass down.
The clink of her glass against the surface echoed through the cavernous room.
After refilling her wine from the fridge, she retreated to her office.
She ordered a pizza from Nell’s and settled into her chair, promising herself that she would only spend an hour on her inbox, a vow she invariably broke.