‘Champagne it is.’ He holds a hand up to the barman and using sign language orders two glasses. ‘You gonna tell me your name?’ He turns his attention back to me.
‘Ruby.’
‘Ruby.’ He nods slowly. ‘And tell me Ruby, what do you do for a living?’
‘Can’t you tell?’ I reach for the fresh champagne the barman has placed next to me.
‘I want to hear you to say it out loud.’ His knowing eyes bore into mine; they’re so dark they have no gap between pupil and iris.
‘You want me to say it?’
‘Sure, then we’ll know where we stand and I won’t make a cock-up that’ll earn me a slap.’
‘OK.’ I tip my head and hold eye contact. ‘I’m a whore.’
He grins and flashes a neat row of white teeth. ‘A whore.’ He rolls the word around his mouth. ‘A whore. Ruby the whore. I think just whore is a better name, forget the Ruby.’
I shrug. ‘Whatever turns you on …er …?’ I extend the sentence wondering if he’ll offer his name.
‘You don’t need to call me anything.’ He lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a deep sip. His silver wedding band twinkles in the headlights of a passing Bentley. ‘You want to set up a deal, Whore,’ he says.
I like him calling me whore; he says it with such deliciousness; he savours each syllable and ekes out the ‘r’ at the end. His mouth plays with the word and I hope he wants to play with me that way. ‘A deal,’ I say, knowing I must stop fantasising and think business. ‘What have you got in mind?’
He leans his head to mine, moves my long hair with the back of his hand and whispers into my ear. ‘A quick fuck in the toilets.’
The request doesn’t even deserve a response so I tilt my chin in the air with a haughty flick.
‘Too downmarket for a whore like you, eh?’
‘I could have had that with them.’ I nod at the three guys at the bar ordering more drinks. ‘I’m not up for that, not with you.’
‘So what are you up for?’
‘The whole night or nothing. Sex, foreplay, a soap down in the shower. Eight hours from the time we get to your room.’
‘How do you know I have a room?’ He frowns.
‘I saw you sign your tab earlier.’
‘You were watching me?’
‘Why not? You look like you have deep pockets.’
A deep rumble of laughter spills from his lips. ‘Not all I got in my pocket,’ he says as he shifts his weight on the stool.
I smile but stay in business mode, cross my legs and hook a heel on the bar of my own stool. ‘Fifteen hundred for the night.’
The smile slips from his face. ‘You must be joking, you got a gold-plated pussy or something?’
‘I never joke about money.’
‘Me neither, seven hundred and fifty.’
‘Thirteen hundred.’
‘How do I know you’re any good? You might shag like a sack of potatoes.’
‘I can assure you I’ve never had complaints before, the odd heart attack yes, but no complaints.’
He props an elbow on the bar and leans in close. ‘One thousand,’ he murmurs. ‘For the whole night, my rules, I’m in charge – you do what I say.’
‘That could work.’ I pretend to mull it over and try not to look too excited at the deal about to be struck and what delights might lay ahead. His cool water aftershave and his intensely primitive stare are making me wet for him already.
‘But one thing first.’ He straightens and his suit jacket stretches across his chest.
‘What?’
‘Uncross your legs.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard what I said – I want to sample the goods before I cough up a grand.’
‘You want to sample the goods … here?’
‘Oh, yeah, right here, right now, my rules, remember?’
I unfurl my legs and slide to the edge of the bar stool, grateful that apart from a few drivers whizzing along Park Lane I’m hidden from view to everyone in the Champagne Bar. He stands, nudges my legs further open and reaches back to pull his stool closer; sits back down.
I take a sip of champagne and feel a thrill as a cool finger sneaks up the hem of my dress on to my fishnets. I make a point of not reacting to the burst of pleasure as he winds higher and higher on to the warm flesh of my thigh. The material of my dress is bunched and rucked around his wrist and his wandering fingers find and sweep the silk gusset of my lace panties.
I don’t look down though I know I’m on show, exposed, instead I hold a serene, confident expression as his unblinking eyes drill into mine.
‘You’re hot,’ he whispers. ‘Are you wet, too?’
‘Just for you.’ I squirm onto his inquisitive finger.
‘Dirty little whore,’ he mouths, a twitch catching his upper lip and a wicked glint sharding through his eyes. He pulls the elastic of my knickers aside and a single thick finger strokes up the soft folds of my now hyper-sensitive flesh and flicks over my buzzing clitoris. Just once, just enough to tease and make me want more.
I pull in a sharp breath and try not to let out a whimper as the barman walks over and removes our empty glasses.
‘Would you like more champagne, sir?’ he asks.
The exploring finger heads lower and begins to slowly push into my emptiness, filling me just a little. I can barely register what the question has been.
‘We’re fine thanks,’ Hunk answers for me as he slides all the way in. I feel my spine soften and curl forward. I need more of what he’s doing but I can’t have it now, not here. I look up at the barman and see a fleeting, unreadable expression cross his face before he turns his back on us.
The finger pulls slowly out, knickers realign, and my dress is straightened to my knees. ‘Well?’ I ask, feeling a flush of colour rise on my cheekbones as I re-cross my legs, pretending the whole thing never happened.
My brooding client props his elbow on the bar and the light catches my glistening juices spread on his middle finger. ‘Let’s see.’ He opens his mouth and pokes his long, moist finger in up to the knuckle. Then closing his eyes he withdraws it very, very slowly letting out a small murmur of approval as he does so. ‘I think …’ he says, hardly opening his hooded eyes. ‘You’ll do very nicely, but I’ll warn you, I don’t spend a thousand pounds lightly, I’ll be getting my money’s worth. You think you can handle that?’
I practically melt into a boneless heap at the thought of him making sure he gets his money’s worth out of me. ‘I can handle plenty,’ I say with a jut of my jaw that belies my jubilant butterflies.
‘Good,’ he says standing up. ‘Let’s go.’ He waits as I pick up my purse and then threads his fingers with mine. He leads me past the three men and out into the bright lobby.
‘You like my dress then?’ I ask conversationally as we head to the lift.
‘Not nearly slutty enough,’ is his gruff response.
We step into the waiting lift. The second the door rolls shut he’s on me. Pushing me against the smoky mirrored wall with his big, powerful body and slamming his erection into my stomach. His mouth presses down on mine and his insistent tongue probes and explores. ‘No,’ I manage to breathe as I twist and remove his tongue. ‘No kissing on the mouth.’
‘What?’
‘No kissing on the mouth, that’s the rule, stick to it or the deal is off.’
He steps back and his weight is gone, I miss it already. A flash of disapproval, or maybe hurt, crosses his face and he runs a hand over his short, sharp hair. I have no time to explain it’s standard whore practice because the lift door pings open and an elderly, well-dressed couple step in.
‘Good evening,’ they say.
‘Evening,’ he replies through a strained voice.
I smile and smooth my hands down my dress to remove tell-tale creases.