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The cost was horrendous but by this time Em didn’t care. It would be on her personal card not the corporate one. Ambrose never queried her spending. It was eight-forty-five. Alain, a tall and well built young man with dark hair who was a graduate or something or other (Em didn’t catch it and didn’t care) would arrive at nine-fifteen. If extended time was required thereafter, a simple phone call would fix it. Em finished her coffee and cognac, signed the bill and left the restaurant. She smiled to herself. From their smiles and behind-the-hand commentary, it seemed that the patrons, almost to the man (and woman), had now decided she was a call-girl who had just clinched the evening’s deal. She loved Paris. Everyone assumed you were emulating the very public private lives of the country’s leading politicians. She reached her room. At eight-fifty-five she was in the shower. At nine pm she was powdering and perfuming. At nine oh five she was sitting on the sofa in the suite’s living. I looked right at her and gave her my best unashamed, unaccusatory, friendly smile, then turned back away. The water ran a little while longer, then she left.At this point, the adrenaline was really flowing. The possibility screamed at me: What if she came back again? What should I do? My cock was throbbing at full extension.I didn't have time to decide. In under two minutes she knocked again. I invited her in. She still had her coffee pot. The excuse was way past ridiculous. She was undoubtedly fascinated. Did she want me to fuck her? I guessed she probably didn't know, just kept coming back because she felt drawn. I couldn't imagine that she was very sexually experienced. Perhaps a virgin, perhaps not, but definitely inexperienced. What did I want? I had to do something. My adrenaline level was so high I was having mild shakes. What did I want? It was too difficult, so I retreated to an easier question: What did I not want? I decided that this was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of.
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