For Hire: The Intimate Adventures of a Gigolo. Luke Bradbury
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Название: For Hire: The Intimate Adventures of a Gigolo
Автор: Luke Bradbury
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары
isbn: 9780007479696
isbn:
‘I trust that didn’t put you off,’ I declared deadpan, as I backed off the bed. Tash didn’t shift at all, though the bedcovers were half pulled away from her. She lay naked before me, looking utterly contented.
‘No. Not at all.’
Her voice was steady and stronger, any traces of her initial fear gone. ‘I could lie here like this all night,’ she mused.
I picked up my trousers from the floor and pulled them back on, along with my shirt, which I buttoned swiftly. When I turned back towards Tash on the bed, she surprised me by now standing close beside me, her own clothes back on.
‘That was lovely, Luke. Exactly what I needed.’ Tash rubbed my arm tenderly.
‘I’m glad I could be of help.’
I kissed her forehead.
She went over to the dressing table, picked up the envelope of money and came back and put it in my hand. Some girls paid upfront, others at the end of a session. It was a risk—that they might not have the money. But I’d yet to be stung that way. What I was aware of was that nervous clients such as Tash could be intimidated by me asking for payment before we’d even got started. It could be too blunt an approach—reminding them that our time together was a financial transaction, when what they needed was tenderness.
‘You were,’ she said. ‘Very much so.’
We returned downstairs and she called me my cab to the station. When it arrived, we kissed on the lips one last time. I stepped out of her house and into the midnight darkness. It had been a pleasure to help her out. She was gorgeous, for one thing. And whomever she had from now on, she’d never forget me for being her first.
Josephine
Mid-March
The elegant clock on the mantelpiece told me I’d already been here well over an hour—and we still hadn’t got beyond the talking stage.
I ignored the voice in my head telling me I was losing my touch. I knew exactly what I was doing with Josephine. I was letting her talk herself out until she felt comfortable enough to move to the next stage.
She was telling me about her family visits to India. It was funny, because when I’d first spoken to Josephine on the phone, I’d presumed by the lilt in her voice that she might be Welsh and had been surprised when a handsome, fifty-something Asian lady had opened the door to me. She lived in a quiet street in leafy Twickenham.
As I settled into the comfy sofa, I noted the array of Indian carvings among the immaculately arranged antiques. A pair of knee-high elephants guarded the marble fireplace.
I looked across at Josephine. She was sitting far back in a striped armchair that matched the sofa, nervously holding onto her teacup and saucer. If she gripped it any tighter, I was sure the thing would shatter between her fingertips. I smiled with my eyes to reassure her.
‘It’s not often I come out this far.’
‘I’m a solicitor at a local practice,’ she disclosed, which surprised me, since she spoke in a quiet voice that didn’t especially fill me with confidence—and suggested that she still had a way to go before she felt totally relaxed in my company.
‘I came to the area not long after I qualified. I can remember when the houses round here were divided into bedsits. I’ve got this place—’ she looked up to the ceiling to indicate the entire house—‘all to myself.’
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