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I relax a bit. “You only have to look at your reviews to know that.”
His eyes lock back on mine. “I’m not interested in what my reviews have to say about it, Ella. I’m interested in you.”
Fuck. His voice.
My heart races, and I get flutters. His deep green eyes are addictive. His brows fit his face like he’s a sculpted masterpiece. If he wasn’t an entertainer, he could be a model. Definitely.
“How about you?” I ask. “What if it was a fifty grander. Vanilla. One hour.”
That sets him off with a real laugh. “Vanilla?! No way. Even if I was going to take a fifty grander, it definitely wouldn’t be for vanilla. I’d be bored shitless.” He leans forward. “Anyway, it’s a ditto from me. It wouldn’t happen. I’d rather be here with you.”
I can feel myself blushing through my foundation.
I use his words. “That’s nice to know.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Which bit? The fifty grand turndown or the not liking vanilla?”
“Both.”
I take a long gulp of my wine, and I’m grateful for it, gushing out another that’s amazing, before I can stop myself.
“I’ve got to stop saying that,” I tell Josh. “Amazing, amazing, amazing.”
“Please don’t,” he says, “I love the way you say it.”
“Like an awkward teenager?”
“No. Like you. I love the way you’re you. It’s cute.”
“Cute. That’s one word for it.” My cheeks are still burning, and my stomach lurches, because I don’t just want to be cute to him. I want to be hot. Irresistible. Horny. Dirty. “I don’t say amazing on repeat with clients like that, you know. I’m just a bit nervous, being with you. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“You’re more nervous with me than with clients?”
It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. I take a breath.
“Yeah, I am. Because clients are clients, and it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just filth and then home, with a healthy looking bank account. This is…” My voice trails off. I’m scared of dive bombing again, but I don’t need to. His grin is… amazing.
“I’m glad you were the one to say it, because seriously, I’ve been shitting myself. I’m right with you. Clients, piece of piss, I’ll do whatever they want and not even break a sweat anymore, but this.” He’s looking right at me. “It’s different.”
Different. Yeah, it is.
He raises his glass of wine for a clink, and then I take another sip of mine, careful not to glug too much in case I start blurting out more amazing romantic crap ahead of schedule.
It’s so tempting to ask him about clients, but I don’t want to talk about that side of his life. Not yet. It would be so easy and fascinating to dig into Weston and hear about all the true hardcore filth he gets up to, right here in the flesh, without the distance of messenger – whispering quietly so the tables around don’t hear us. But tonight isn’t about work, or being a hardcorer, or working in the same job role. I don’t want to know Weston, I want to know Josh.
“Your parents in Australia. How was it visiting them?” he asks.
“It was out of this world. I cried at the airport when I arrived, and cried again on the way back. I hadn’t seen them in years, and video call is cool, but seeing them in person was…” I laugh again. “Different.”
He laughs back. “You’re an only child, right?”
I realise then how our messaging has become more of a running commentary than anything really deep. We both pulled back a bit after the initial soul bearing messages we started up when I first went away. Like we’ve been trying to keep things at surface level, playing it safe. I know plenty about him, yeah, but not enough yet. I don’t know him.
“Yeah, I’m an only child. My parents had me really late. I was a surprise. A welcome one, apparently. They’d kind of given up.”
