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‘And are you the kind of guy who’s into that?’
I shifted on the bed, leaning closer to the camera as I typed.
He made me wait for his reply, nibbling at my lip as I glanced at the screen.
‘I’m the kind of guy who would love to take your breath away, but not with flowers and sweet words.’
‘What would you use?’ My heart rate picked up.
‘What wouldn’t I use? sweet Cherry?’
My private messages popped up with a request for a call from Foot Guy, and I hesitated as the invitation hung on my screen. It was the sensible choice. The easy choice.
‘I’m getting a call for a private cam session. I should take it.’
‘What will he have you do?’
‘He likes to just look at my feet while I ignore him.’
‘And does that get you wet?’
I couldn’t help but smile.
‘No. But it pays the bills.’
‘If I call you, you can still pay the bills, but you can tell me all about what makes your sweet little cunt drip.’ His text sent a jolt right through me.
‘Most guys want to tell me about what they want.’
‘I’m not most guys. I enjoy inflicting pleasure as much as receiving it. When was the last time someone else made you come?’
I didn’t need to look at myself in the picture on my screen to know I was blushing. The heat practically burned from my cheeks.
‘That long, huh? Call me.’
I rejected the call from Foot Guy, and rang through to ScotsDaddy, my video disappearing from the group chat.
‘All yours,’ I said, as he accepted the call.
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Cherry.’ Nerves fluttered in my stomach at the sound of his deep, rich voice. He was far better spoken than most of my clients, but there was no doubting the Glaswegian lilt that lightly decorated his words. He was from my city. Flip.
‘Don’t I get to see you?’ I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
‘I’m not putting my face on here.’
‘It doesn’t have to be your face...’ I blinked up at the camera with my best doe-eyed expression.
When he didn’t reply, I thought I’d pushed too hard. I shifted on my bed as my mind ran, trying to figure out how to keep him on the line.
‘Fine, but no face.’
I grinned as his video blinked into life. He was sitting on a leather armchair with a spacious, high-ceilinged room behind him. Unlike a lot of the dinge-fests I normally saw, it was pristinely neat; the bed made with precision in cloudy white linens. Not a single thing out of place.
The man himself looked equally well turned out. He wore a white shirt, rolled up over thick forearms in a way that made me feel funny between the thighs. A golden Rolex fit snugly across his wrist, his hands relaxed as he waited.
No wedding band.
Jesus, Valentina, why are you checking for a wedding ring? Half of your clients are married, it doesn’t matter.
