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Briana
The early afternoonsunlight slanting through the vertical blinds felt like heaven on my bare back. It was probably the most pleasant part of my current activity, and I drank the feeling in, let it wash over me.
Below me, Sinclair looked like he was about to finish. I had a hard time telling with him sometimes, even though we'd been fucking for nearly two years. As he was with most things, Sinclair was a complete dead fish in bed. He was successful because he was good at his job, not for his charisma or likability. Not that he was mean or anything like that. He was actually a pretty decent guy. Just not when it came to sex.
The hotel suite was gorgeous. The crystal chandelier hanging in the sunken living room and the gold-accented wallpaper always made me feel like I was in a palace, somewhere far away. That was what appealed to me most about Sinclair D'Amil. He always got this suite when he visited Vegas, and we never went out anywhere, so it always felt surreal, like it wasn't actually part of my life. Like the person currently riding the stocky businessman beneath her wasn't the same person as the twenty-four-year-old single mother who'd run away from Oklahoma two weeks after her eighteenth birthday.
Sinclair groaned, pulling my attention back down to him. I groaned, but not for the same reason. I hated thinking about money when we were having sex. It made me feel like what I was doing now was the same as selling myself, and it wasn't. Sinclair and I had an open relationship, with the understanding that I was his exclusive company during his time in the city. In exchange for my time and attention, he helped me out with my rent and my daughter's tuition at the private school she attended.
It wasn't like I left here with an envelope full of cash or anything slutty like that.
It was more like a boyfriend who paid some bills for me. A boyfriend who had other girlfriends in other cities. A boyfriend I never thought about when we were apart and rarely focused on when we were together.
But he wanted my body and my company, not my affection. Neither one of us had any illusions about what this was between us.
“I'm coming,” Sinclair announced like he was reading a newspaper headline.
“Me too,” I lied.
It was a lie I always gave him. Sex with him didn't hurt, and it wasn't even uncomfortable. Sure, it wasn't good, and he'd never actually given me an orgasm, but it didn't hurt to pretend.
I rode him harder, swiveling my hips even as I squeezed him. After almost two years, I knew what he liked, and that's what it was about. Him getting off. Not me. He could find another girlfriend if he really wanted to. He was wealthy, nice, and while a little on the heavy side, he wasn't entirely bad-looking.
Early forties, salt-and-pepper hair, a square, defined chin. He had eyes the color of ripe olives, which I often honed in on when we spoke. He might not have been exciting, but I knew he was better than most guys who wouldn't have taken care of me half as well. I was good at finding the positive in every situation. It was the only way I stayed sane.
Sinclair shook, holding onto my hips as his eyes rolled back. He grunted as he came, and I keened out the perfect fake orgasm to accompany it. I doubted that, even if he'd been a good lover, he would have been able to tell that none of it was real. No one else had ever figured it out. Well, except for Elroy Wheeler, my scum ex. He was the one who taught me about sex, including how to pretend that I enjoyed it.
The next part of the routine was just as predictable as the position we always used. I didn't even try to make up an excuse as he pulled me down against his sweaty chest and held me there for a moment. He wasn't big on cuddling, but a couple minutes to recover seemed to make sense to him, so I went with it. Besides, it wasn't like he tried for pillow talk or wanted me to praise his prowess or anything like that. And he waxed, so it wasn't too bad.
It also gave me a few minutes to finish planning what I needed to do the rest of the day. Like grocery shopping before I picked up Mikala from her weekend at her dad's. These weekend visits seemed so damn long sometimes. I missed my girl. At least Elroy didn't insist on regular visitation. The bastard.
I turned my thoughts to groceries before I could get too annoyed thinking about that asshole. What did I need apart from milk? There was still a box of Mikala's favorite cereal, so I didn't need any more of that. Some fruit, whatever was on sale. She liked vegetables too. Celery with peanut butter was one of her favorite summer snacks.
What had I ever done to deserve such a great kid?
I couldn't think of a damn thing.
“That was great,” Sinclair said.
He might have worded it in different ways, but whatever positive statement he used to break the silence meant that we were done for the day. That was another thing I liked about Sinclair. We made a little small talk when we first met up, but he didn't try to draw things out.
I made a non-committal noise as I patted him on his chest and rolled off him. I didn't look at him as he squeezed off the condom and dropped it into the wastebasket next to the bed. A moment later, he rolled up onto his elbows, flicked on the TV, and grabbed a cigarette from the pack he kept on the bedside table.
Once the television came on, I climbed off the bed and picked up my clothes from where I'd left them on the nearby chair. I carried them into the bathroom and turned on the shower. No matter how often I wanted to linger in the luxury, I never did. I just needed to clean up so that I didn't smell like sex when I left.
One of the things that made this arrangement between us work was that Sinclair and I both agreed on the boundaries. The most important was that this and my daughter never connected. Sinclair made payments directly to my landlord and to the school, but he did it in some way that kept things under wraps.
I was running through all the things I needed to do today when I got out of the shower and started drying off. Before I finished, Sinclair called to me from the bedroom.
“Your phone's ringing.”
I wrapped the towel around me even as I walked out. I always answered my phone when it rang, just in case it was something to do with Mikala. This time, however, it was my boss' name on the caller ID.
“Hey, Earl,” I answered, stepping back into the bathroom, and closing the door behind me. I put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter as I got dressed. “What's up?”
“Hey, honey! I've got a job for you,” he practically shouted through the speakers. “There's a couple high rollers at the Aladdin. I heard from a little birdie that they're not very happy there, and I think if you go now, they could be persuaded to come to our casino instead.”
I worked as a hostess at one of the higher end casinos, but because it was Vegas, there were lots of high-end casinos in town. People often didn't realize the kind of underhanded dealings that went on in those kinds of establishments. Not shit like prostitution or drugs. Everyone knew about those. I’m talking about headhunting wealthy patrons with the hopes of turning them into repeat customers. Free rooms, comped drinks...all sorts of incentives were offered.
