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“Again,” I said. “Properly. I want you again.”
She grinned and pushed me onto my back. “Then you’d better be quick, Mr Whitlock.”
I was not quick. That was the problem.
She went down on me first, slow and devastating, until I was hard as iron, and then rolled a fresh condom on and turned around and lowered herself onto me facing away, her pale freckled back arching, her hands on my knees. The view was ridiculous. I held her hips and watched myself disappear into her, over and over, and she rocked harder and faster and started to moan, and I was close, God, I was so close.
Her phone alarm went off.
It was a cheerful little xylophone tune. It played three times. Vivienne stopped moving.
“Ah,” she said.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m so sorry.” She was laughing, and trying not to, and failing. “I’ve got another booking at eleven across town. I genuinely can’t.”
“Five minutes. I’ll pay for five minutes.”
“The agency doesn’t do five minutes.” She climbed off me, kissed me on the forehead, and started gathering her clothes. “Next time,” she said, “maybe book three hours.”
The door closed behind her. I lay there alone, rock hard, staring at the ceiling, while the xylophone tune played on a loop in my head for the rest of the night.
I booked three hours next time.
Ending 3 of 16: Time’s Up. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.