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“I’ll pay for extra time,” I said. “Another two hours. If you’ll stay.”
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her phone, sent a message to the agency, and put it face down on the table.
“Done,” she said. “Now stop watching the clock. That’s my job.”
We didn’t rush. That was the gift of the extra hours, I realised: nobody was in a hurry. She rolled a condom onto me with her mouth, which I had not known was possible, and then climbed on top and sank down onto my cock with a long, low sigh, her hands flat on my chest. She rode me slowly, her auburn hair coming loose from its pins, and kissed me every time she leaned forward.
When she came she buried her face in my neck and said my name, and it didn’t sound like work.
Afterwards we ordered chips from room service and ate them in bed. She wore my shirt. She told me her real name was Isla. She told me she wasn’t supposed to tell me that.
“Why did you?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at me with chip salt on her lip. “You’re nice, Graham. It’s annoying.”
Just after midnight her phone buzzed. Time. She didn’t move.
“So,” she said quietly. “Here’s the bit where I get dressed.”